When the Evil Shall be Done
by Meercat
Summary: Sheldon, Danny and Lindsay are held hostage in the lab. Lindsay is dying. What can Mac and the others do to save them? The good news is, Lindsay gets out. The bad news ... well ...
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: When the Evil Shall be Done 

AUTHOR: Meercat PG-13

CATEGORY: Angst, drama, h/c, friendship

SYNOPSIS: Sheldon, Danny and Lindsay are held hostage in the lab. Lindsay is dying. What can Mac and the others do to save them?

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never were, but don't I wish. Not making no money off this (drat and doubledrat!). All recognizable elements of this series, including names, characters, and locations, belong to someone else. No copyright infringement is intended.

ARCHIVE: Yes, but ask first and give me the URL or your site so that I can bask in my glory. g

SPOILERS: Various. I'll place a warning in each appropriate chapter.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The villain in this story loves to spout out literary quotes. A listing of quotes and their sources will be posted at the end of their relevant chapters.

When the Evil Shall be Done

By Meercat

CHAPTER 1

Danny Messer marched off the elevator and slashed the air over his right shoulder. "Get outta 'ere, Hawkes. You're full of it, you know dat?"

Dr. Sheldon Hawkes grinned and followed Danny Messer off the center lift onto the 35th floor--the NYPD's Crime Lab. "Sorry, Danny, it's true."

Danny leaned over to peek behind Hawkes. "Montana, you're not buyin' any of this bozo's crap, are ya?"

Lindsay Monroe couldn't hide the mischievous grin that brightened her pixie face. "He does make a valid point, Danny. His theory fits the evidence."

"Valid, smalid! It's a load a bull-hockey, 's what it is."

"You think you can prove otherwise?" Hawkes waved an "after you" gesture in Messer's direction then folded his arms across the front of his black turtleneck sweater. The former Medical Examiner tilted his head to the side, shifted his weight to his right leg, and said, "I'm listening."

Messer ticked each point off on his ever-moving hands. "First off, no way in hell Girardi've would've pulled the trigger on his partner. Todario's will _and_ the inheritance clause in their business contract meant he'd gain nada--zip--zero from Todario's death. Second, no GSR on his hands--and before you say it, yes he had plenty of time to wash it off. But he didn't have any on his clothes neither, an' he didn't have time to change before the first uniforms arrived on scene."

Hawkes nodded but answered, "That only means he didn't pull the trigger himself. Carlos Girardi isn't the type to get his own hands dirty--your words, not mine. He could easily have hired someone else to do the dirty work. He has the money and the shady underworld contacts to do it. The killer could have escaped out the back way before the scene could be secured."

"True enough," Danny admitted, "but again, what's the motive? Todario's will and business contract leaves all his assets to his three kids. You saw how that trio hated Girardi. No way in hell they'd share with him, an' with their 58 percent controllin' interest in the company, they'd have him out an' done inside a year, tops. Killin' Todario just was not in Girardi's best interests--period, end of story."

Lindsay turned twinkling eyes on the dark-skinned former ME and grinned. "Point. Several points, in fact."

"Ahh, but he doesn't take jealousy into account," Sheldon said. "We know that Girardi was having long-time affairs with both Todario's wife _and_ Todario's mistress. I say one of two things happened. Either Girardi wanted the women more than he wanted the business and was willing to take out Todario to get them, or Todario found out and confronted him on it. Girardi ordered the hit thinking to defend himself."

Lindsay nodded and turned back to Danny. "That's a valid scenario."

"Who's side are you on, Montana!"

Lindsay bit back a giggle and shrugged. "Beats me. I'm having fun just listening to you two argue it out."

"You think it's funny, do you, baby doll?"

"Yes. Definitely. Better than pay-per-view."

Messer stabbed his finger toward Monroe and mock-glowered, even as his own eyes twinkled and his lips fought the urge to pull upwards. "You know what they say about payback, don't you?"

Lindsay giggled and trotted away, headed for the lab's break room. No one noted the closed blinds or saw the silent figure standing to the right of the door. Waiting.

Monroe entered the room first, closely followed by Hawkes, with Messer bringing up the rear.

A sudden, striking pain exploded across the back of Danny's head. He fell to his knees and rolled to the side, stunned by a blow to his head. Bright lights burst behind his eyeslids. His hearing registered raised voices--warnings--Lindsay crying out his name--gunfire.

God. Shots. Three, maybe four. Breaking glass. The ping of a ricochet. Someone's been shot.

Danny Messer blinked away the stars, and awoke to chaos. The air stank of cordite and blood.

Pulled onto his knees by fingers buried in his sandy hair--held in place by a gun barrel pressed against his throbbing skull--Danny stared at the section of bullet-riddled chaos of the break room that he could see. Sheldon Hawkes lay five feet away, nearest the door, bleeding from a shallow cut over his right eye. Sheldon's gun lay on the floor some three feet from him.

The dark-skinned criminalist moaned and blinked, his eyes unfocused. Danny breathed a prayer of relief. Hawkes was stunned but not unconscious.

Messer couldn't see Lindsay from his position. _Montana, where are you? God, please let her be okay._

Beyond the swinging, vertical blinds of the break room, uniformed and plainclothes officers responded to the gunfire. A dozen figures darted from cover to cover, seeking the best positions to contain the violent situation. Lab techs in white coats and terrified civilians disappeared into the stairways and elevators, their retreat covered by armed officers--all non-essential personnel would be evacuated.

Until SWAT knew how many gunmen they faced, what weapons and/or possible explosives they had, and how many hostages needed to be secured, they'd sit tight and wait. Mac would be out there soon. He'd know what to do.

The gunman's hand shifted Messer's corduroy jacket, baring his side holster. Danny ground his teeth as the man lifted his Glock clear of the leather. Praying the gunman wouldn't consider any movement a threat, Messer turned his head to the right, searching.

Lindsay lay on her stomach, close to the break room counter, face turned away from him, arms and legs splayed out in an untidy sprawl. Swizzle sticks, napkins, packets of sugar and creamer, and tiny tubs of half-n-half littered the floor around her--results from an overturned coffee tray. Her weapon lay near her right hand.

Dark, heavy blood weighed the back of her pink and plumb, tie-dye patterned shirt. A scarlet pool oozed across the creamy linoleum.

"Montana? Lindsay? Oh God."


	2. Chapter 2

**When the Evil Shall be Done**

By Meercat

AN #1: The villain in this story loves to spout out literary quotes. A listing of quotes and their sources will be posted at the end of their relevant chapters.

AN #2: I forgot to mention the pairing: DL, naturally.

**Chapter 2**

"Thou wilt lament hereafter, when the evil shall be done and shall admit no cure."

_This crazy-assed bastard talkin' nonsense!_ "What?"

The hand left Danny's hair but the gun remained pressed against the back of his head.

"I regret having to do this," the gunman said, his accent generic, almost cultivated. "I truly do. My reasons are just and my resolve undiminished, even though my methods may seem harsh and unyielding."

_Think, Messer. Think how to handle this. You need to get to Lindsay. She needs help. Hawkes. She needs a doctor._

"Let me help my friends. Please."

It about killed Danny to be polite, especially when all he wanted was to tear the bastard's throat out with his bare hands. If it got him what he wanted, he'd beg from the devil himself on bended knee.

"On your stomach, Detective. Just for a moment."

Extra pressure from the gun barrel against Messer's head turned an otherwise civil request into a threatening order.

Shaking with anger and panic, Danny reluctantly settled onto his belly, arms out at his sides. Was this bastard planning to plant a bullet into his head the instant he was helpless on the floor?

Messer's attention swung like a pendulum, from Lindsay to the gunman and back again. He watched, helpless, as the man gathered up first Sheldon's gun then Lindsay's.

_This guy's old. 60, maybe 65. Hell, he could even be a well-preserved 70. Armed with a .38 revolver--looks like a snub-nose Colt. Armani suit, neatly pressed. A bloody tear on the left forearm--looks like either Hawkes or Montana clipped him one._

_Lindsay. Baby. Move. Please. So much blood. Oh, God._

_Snow white hair--what little there is. Short boxed beard. All of it neat and trimmed. Old fart's not hurtin' for money, and he don't feel like a hardened criminal type. So what the hell is his problem? What possible beef could he have with the PD, with us?_

_Montana, sweetheart. Move. Make a sound. Anythin'. Please let me know you're alive._

Once all three detectives were relieved of their weapons, the man turned back to Danny and nodded.

Given that tacit permission, Messer pushed off the floor, lunged over to Sheldon Hawkes, and helped the stunned doctor to sit up. Danny raised up enough to examine the cut over Sheldon's eye. A bloody crease, slightly more than an inch long, bisected the doctor's right eyebrow.

"Shel? Doc, c'mon, snap out of it. Lindsay's hurt. I need your help."

"Lindsay?" Sheldon focused on Messer. "Hurt?"

"Shot in the back."

Awareness flooded the ex-ME's eyes. Staring around, he spotted Lindsay Monroe near the kitchen cabinet. He and Danny hurried to her side. Hawkes swayed, overwhelmed by a rush of dizziness. Ignoring the nauseous swim inside his head, he laid trembling fingertips against her neck.

Messer settled on her other side. His hands hovered over her still body, desperate to help but unwilling to do anything that might hurt.

Hawkes' voice shook with relief as he said, "She's alive. Help me roll her, just enough to see if there's an exit wound."

Danny did the rolling while Sheldon lay flat to the floor and looked beneath her.

"No exit wound. Lay her back down."

By the time Danny had settled her to the chilly linoleum, Hawkes had ripped the back of Lindsay's shirt to reveal the injury. A jagged hole marred her skin beneath the right shoulder blade, less than an inch from the line of her spinal column. Blood seeped from the hole in time with her heart.

Seeing the vicious wound, Messer glared daggers at the man with the gun. "You shot her in the back, you sorry-assed son-of-a-bitch!"

"Danny, calm down," Sheldon begged. His hands never stopped moving, further tearing Lindsay's shirt and using a handkerchief to wipe the skin around it, exposing the entry point. "I need your help here."

Messer threw the gunman from his mind and focused everything on helping Lindsay. "Tell me what ya want me t' do."

Sheldon turned to the gunman and said, "There's a first aid kit mounted on the wall. Can we get it?"

Rather than answer, their captor went to the large white box, with its big red cross and the words "Emergency First Aid" across the metal lid. He took it off the wall, laid it on the nearest break room table, and raised the lid. He searched its contents, transferred the scissors to his pocket then closed the lid and stepped away.

"Take it."

Danny snatched the box. For the next ten minutes, Messer opened bandages, cracked open antiseptic ampoules, brought water bottles from the refrigerator, tore tape with his teeth, whatever Sheldon needed as he worked to save Lindsay Monroe. Throughout the trauma, Montana lay still, not even a weak moan to protest the astringent application of infection-fighting liquids.

When he wasn't helping Hawkes, Danny knelt down to talk directly into Lindsay's ear. He stroked her hair and whispered nonsense words, begging, threatening, cajoling, anything he could think that might penetrate.

"Montana? Sweetheart, I'm here. You're gonna be okay, y'hear me? Hawkes'll patch you up good as new. You'll see. Lindsay, can you open your eyes for me? C'mon, Montana, love, open those beautiful eyes, just for a second. Okay?"

"I will take your badges, if you please."

Danny didn't even look up. "Go to hell, you sick bastard."

The man aimed his .38 at Lindsay Monroe's head and pulled back the hammer. "I could kill her right now, if you'd rather."

Danny pulled his badge off his belt and threw it at the man. Sheldon did the same with his own and Lindsay's badges.

The gunman gathered them up even as the break room telephone rang.

**QUOTE:**

Thou wilt lament hereafter, when the evil shall be done and shall admit no cure. -- Homer ("Smyrns of Chios), _The Iliad, _(bk. IX, l. 308), (Bryant's translation)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_"Shots fired, shots fired, 35th floor! Evacuation in progress. Lock down all remaining floors. Internal security level red. Emergency response level red."_

Mac Taylor and Don Flack froze in the first floor atrium, stunned by the PA announcement.

"35," Don whispered. "That's the lab!"

Taylor dove through the closing doors of the bright yellow elevator, Flack close on his heels.

"Shots in the lab? How could this be happening?" Flack asked even as both men took their guns off safety, checked magazines, and chambered a round ready to fire. "How many people do you think's up there this time of the afternoon?"

"Fifteen-eighteen," Mac estimated. "Maybe as many as thirty. Depends on how many visitors are in the lab. I asked Adam to clean up the Kepler Jewelry security tapes, so he's definitely there."

"I saw Hawkes in the parking garage around fifteen minutes ago. He's probably in the lab by now."

Mac inserted his control key into the elevator's panel and watched the readout climb--30, 31, 32.

"We'll know is a second."

The instant the lift opened onto the 35th floor, Mac twisted the key, locking the elevator in place. Discordant noise poured through the open doors--screams and cries, voices raised in fear. Uniformed officers, weapons drawn, sought cover behind any available object. Many of them cursed the open, unobstructed view presented by glass walls and see-through furniture. Other officers covered the civilians streaming toward the stairwells.

"I don't see any injuries so far." Mac bobbed his head out long enough to catch a snapshot view of the crime lab. "Maybe that means no one was hurt."

Flack took a moment to pray, "From your mouth to God's ear."

"We won't find out hiding in this elevator. Ready?"

Flack waved the older man toward the open elevator doors. "After you."

The two men sought cover behind the only solid wall--the bright yellow one that surrounded the bank of elevators.

"Adam!" Mac watched as the A/V technician fought against the flow of terrified civilians headed toward the nearest stairwell. "Get downstairs, now!"

"Mac! Mac, wait! There's something you need to know!"

Taylor grabbed Ross by the lab coat sleeve and yanked him to cover.

"Get over here before you get your head blown off. What couldn't wait-"

The technician cut Mac off with uncharacteristic brusqueness. "The shots came from the break room. I don't know how many gunmen are inside but--but I was in Trace when--oh God--Monroe, Hawkes, and Messer are inside. I saw something--a shadow--come up on Messer from behind. Danny fell to the floor. The door closed but the blinds were moving. There were flashes. Gunshots. Lots of yelling then more shots. Since then, nothing."

Taylor and Flack stared down the corridor, towards the break room.

"If our guys had taken down their attackers, they'd've come out by now," Don reasoned.

"That means we have a hostage situation," Mac whispered, "with Danny, Lindsay, and Sheldon caught in the line of fire."

Special Response arrived within two minutes; SWAT Team Beta dispersed to positions all around the laboratory. During that two-minute span, the last civilians escaped into the stairwells. Mac and Don visited their lockers, shed their jackets, and strapped on bulletproof vests.

As the two men returned to the area around the elevators, Mac spotted the tall, rugged form of Captain Larry Baynes, the department's top negotiator. With him stood shorter but bulkier Lieutenant Tom Robbins, commander of SWAT Team Alpha, and a dozen heavily armed and armored tactical response personnel.

"Gentlemen, let's move this to my office," Mac suggested.

Don Flack, Larry Baynes, Tom Robbins, Adam Ross, and four members of SWAT Team Alpha followed Mac into the office, where Flack helped him close the blinds. The flimsy vertical sheets would not protect against a bullet, but hostiles would not be able to get an easy bead on a target. Two uniforms took up station outside the door, ready to provide cover fire should the senior officers need a hurried escape.

"Taylor." Robbins nodded a greeting at the senior detective of the city's crime laboratory. "What do you know about this situation?"

"The shots came from the break room, here." Mac pulled a floor plan out of his credenza, snapped the rubber band, and unrolled the crime lab blueprints across his desk. "It's currently the only room on the floor other than this one with its blinds closed. A witness places at least three of my detectives inside. One assailant is confirmed but there may be more."

"How many shots have been fired so far?"

"I don't know," Mac admitted.

One of the two uniformed patrol officers spoke up, his Staten Island diction even heavier than Messers'. "I was on da floor when it 'appened. I 'eard five distinct dischahges. One roun' went t'rough de break room's glass. The bullet's mos' likely buried in da wall o' the Trace Lab."

"We need to know what's happening in there. At the very least, we need a headcount of the suspects," Lt. Robbins said as he studied the floor plans. "We can't see in through the glass walls because of the closed blinds, sooooo ... From outside, maybe? The closest we can get anyone to the outside window is one of the supports out on the Brooklyn Bridge. The distance is too far for a sniper shot, but maybe we can get a view of what's going on inside the room."

Intimately familiar with the view--and the trajectories--in question, Mac Taylor shook his head. "The angle's all wrong. The 35th floor is higher than the tallest point of the Bridge that might possibly give you a view into the break room. You wouldn't be able to see anything. That's supposing our gunman will leave the shades open."

Robbins sighed and accepted the tactical restriction. "Then we'll have to rely on surveillance from inside the building."

Baynes glared at Adam Ross, the only unarmed, white-coated lab tech in a sea of protective armor and automatic weapons.

"I ordered all non-essential personnel to evacuate the floor," the Captain said.

Mac held Adam in place with a hand on his right shoulder. "Ross is the best A/V technician in the lab," Mac argued. "You'll need him to monitor the equipment and keep the lines of communication open."

"That's good to know," Baynes said, "but depending on how many assailants we're facing and the types of firepower and/or explosives they have, this floor could turn into a war zone without little or no warning. You understand that, right?" he asked Adam. "No panicking or anything if things go south. If you're staying, you're in for the duration. Is that clear?"

Normally the last person in the lab to willingly step into a confrontational situation, Adam Ross met the negotiator eye-to-eye and, while clearly afraid, answered with a rod of steel in his voice, "Those are my friends in there. I'm not leaving until they're safe."

The Captain studied Ross for a long moment before agreeing. "Alright. Go get whatever equipment you need. I want to call that room and end this with as little bloodshed as possible."

Adam deflated, grateful to be of some help. With a brief glance for permission toward Mac, Ross ducked around two nearby SWAT members. Keeping to all available cover, he headed for the A/V lab, directly across from the elevators.

Flack told Mac, "I'll go with him, help him carry the equipment."

"Thanks, Don."

"Mac," Baynes drawled, "I hope you're not expecting to handle the negotiations. That's my job."

"I should handle the call. They're my people. I'm more likely to pick up on any clues and hints they might give than you are."

"True enough, which is why I haven't asked the Chief to order you off this floor. You're too close to this one. You know that."

Mac held Baynes' eyes a solid 30 seconds. His people--his friends--were in danger. He needed to be in control.

_Damnit, Baynes is right_, Mac realized. _I am too close to both the situation and the hostages to handle the contact. I can help best by offering logistical support and relevant intel._

_Baynes is the best negotiator in the department. He knows what he's doing. He'll do everything in his power to get Lindsay, Sheldon, and Danny out safely. But as good as he is, he doesn't know my team. Will he put their needs above that of the department? Will he take a risk if it means saving them, or will he stick to regulations because that's safer?_

_What choice do I have? God, please. Let it be the right one._

He surrendered with a subtle sag of his shoulders.

"Alright. You make the call." Taylor's eyes softened, a plea from one team leader to another. "The lives of my people are in your hands, Lar. Don't let me--or them--down. Please."

Larry Baynes laid his large hand on Mac's shoulder and squeezed.

"I won't, Mac." He gave the shoulder a final pat then turned to the team stationed around him. "Okay, people. Listen up. While the call is active, everyone stay silent. Turn off your cell phones and pagers, now."

He looked to Adam as the AV tech wove his way back through the crowd to Taylor's desk, his arms full of metal boxes and wiring. Behind him came Don Flack, his arms equally full.

Stella Bonasera ducked into the room, her tall, slender form covered with a protective vest.

"Mac, I heard." Stella hurried to his side. "Any news?"

Taylor shook his head. "Nothing. Captain Baynes is about to initiate contact."

Stella studied Mac with a classic slack-jawed double-take. Mac could almost read her mind: _Mac Taylor isn't taking charge of this situation! Is the world ending?_

"I want every phone line except the one I'm using forwarded to other floors," Baynes continued. "Rig the last remaining line to record every word we say. Will this equipment be strong enough to pick up ambient sounds, something the hostages might be talking about in the background?"

"It'll pick up individual heartbeats if I need it to," Adam boasted. "If there's noise, I'll pull it up."

Larry looked from Mac to Stella to Don. "I don't care what the hostage-taker says or does to provoke a response--no one says anything. Let me deal with it. Okay, everyone ready?"

On Baynes' signal, Adam activated the speakerphone and dialed the number to the CSI's break room telephone.

The line rang once. Twice. Three times. The fourth ring broke off mid-way through.

A cultured, unfamiliar voice answered the ringing phone with an unhurried, _"Who is this?"_

"My name is Captain Larry Baynes, NYPD. I want to help you end this standoff peacefully."

_"Forgive me, Captain Baynes, but I have no desire to share discourse with an impartial negotiator. I researched this assault carefully. I know with whom I wish to confer, someone who has as much to lose as I do myself."_

Baynes glanced towards Mac, his expression stony. The experienced negotiator hated when the crooks were intellectually over-stimulated. Adversaries with brains made his job three times as hard.

"And who might that be?"

_"Detective Mac Taylor. This is his lab, after all, and his friends. I understand he was in service to this country, as well--a Marine, I believe. I can deal with him and him alone. Do please call him quickly. Time is of the essence in this matter."_

Mac stepped closer but said nothing until Baynes, with a frustrated slash of his hand, motioned him to speak.

"This is Detective Taylor."

_"Ah yes. As I told Captain Baynes, I have heard much of you, sir. All to the good. You are a man with whom I can deal."_

Baynes, a lefty, scribbled onto a pad of notepaper and turned the result toward Taylor Mac deciphered the rushed, backwards-tilted scrawl--_try to get his name_--and nodded.

"You know about me," Mac said, "but I don't know anything about you. That doesn't seem very fair, does it? Would you tell me your name?"

_"My first impulse is to withhold that information,"_ the gunman said. _"But logically, you would discover my identity eventually. I may as well save you the trouble. I am Nathan Collier, Professor Emeritus of Literature at Chelsea University."_

Mac's eyebrows shot up. He could not keep the surprise and disbelief out of his voice. "Professor?" 

Collier's response was ripe with patient humor. _"It may seem hard to imagine. Yes, given the circumstances, it definitely would. However, I am certain you have encountered situations in the past, tragedies that combine to force an otherwise law-abiding man to do acts that, under an ordinary state of affairs, would be reprehensible."_

Baynes made a circular, reel-him-in motion with his hands--get more information, keep him talking. "Can you tell me about these situations and tragedies?" 

_"In good time, sir. In good time. Don't fret yourself, Detective. I don't intend to leave you dangling for hours in an effort to 'flex my power,' as it were. Time is on no man's side, least of all mine. Or yours. Or the three people in here with me."_

"You have three hostages? How are they?" 

_"Detective Daniel Messer is unharmed. Detective ... pardon, Doctor Sheldon Hawkes was slightly injured but not seriously--a minor head wound that looks far worse than it is."_

A long moment of silence stretched, broken when Mac asked, "And the third hostage?"

Collier's replied, his voice heavy with remorse. _"This I ... I sincerely regret. Truly, I do. I fear that Detective Lindsay Monroe is rather seriously injured."_

Baynes laid a heavy hand on Mac's shoulder, cautioning him to remain in control. Jaw clenched, back arched, knuckles white-gripped on the edge of the desk, Mac remained silent a long moment before he spoke again. Voice tightly controlled, he asked, "Can I talk to Dr. Hawkes or Detective Messer?" 

A second passed, then Hawkes' voice came through the speakerphone, _"I'm here, Mac."_

"Hawkes? Collier says you're injured?" 

"_You heard him, Mac. Flesh wound. Messy but not serious. It's Lindsay I'm worried about."_

"How bad is she?"

_"The bullet struck her from behind, just below the right shoulder blade, and far too close to her spine for my liking. No exit wound, so the bullet's still in there. Had to've been a ricochet since it didn't go straight through. She's lost a lot of blood, Mac. She needs a hospital. Now."_

"I'll do everything I can, just do what you have to do. You and Danny behave yourselves. Don't provoke him. Professor?"

_"Yes, Detective. I'm still here."_

"You say time is against us. Okay. Let's cut right to it. Tell me what you want."

_"What do I want?"_ the man sighed. His tone shifted, became distant, as though drawn to memories or daydreams. _"I would want a perfect world, where literature and art are the focus and drive of mankind, not profit or flesh. A world where mankind follows a philosophy of forgiveness rather than one of an-eye-for-an-eye. A world without prisons or death penalties. I doubt I will ever see that world, don't you?"_

Though the question sounded rhetorical, Sheldon Hawkes answered anyway. _"So long as men wave guns around, shooting from ambush and taking hostages, no. You won't."_

_"I deserved that, true enough. The deed, however, is done. We must all 'make the best of it.' You wish to live. I have only one demand to make. If Detective Taylor deals honorably and accedes to my terms, I will release you all and surrender myself to the judicial system."_

Danny Messer cut in to ask, _"And if they don't? Or can't?"_

_"We all die."_


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Does anyone have a plan of the 35th floor crime lab? I THINK I have things laid out right, but I want to check..._

Chapter 4

Danny Messer and Sheldon Hawkes knelt on either side of Lindsay Monroe. The two men stared at one another with identical expressions of horror.

Danny turned to the man with the gun, his raging temper held in check by a frayed thread. How could this bastard talk so casually about killing other human beings? How could he blithely state his intention to murder everyone in the room, including himself, if his demands weren't met?

The silence stretched until Mac Taylor, his voice tinny through the wall phone's single speaker and throaty with suppressed emotions, said, _"None of us wants anyone to die, do we, Professor. I'm still waiting to hear your demands."_

Collier smiled and tilted his head toward the phone, as though bowing to the man on the other end of the line.

"Ah, yes. I have one demand. Singular. Before I give it to you, I must enlighten you regarding several key facts. I am a widower. My dear Elizabeth passed away from complications of diabetes some twenty years ago. We had one daughter, Rachel, who in turn begat a single child--a boy named Gavin. Rachel and her husband died in a car accident when Gavin was twelve--a lethal encounter with an inebriated driver on New Years' Eve. I became the boy's legal guardian. Gavin was a bothersome youngster who grew into a violent and disturbed young man. He is now 27 years old and incarcerated in the Clinton Correctional Facility."

"Clinton!" Hawkes gasped, jaw slack and eyes wide with surprise. "That's the most secure unit in the state!"

"As I am sure you are aware," Collier ignored the interruption and continued with his pre-planned spiel, "CCF is a maximum security prison located 15 miles west of Plattsburgh, New York. Gavin is housed on their death row--the unfortunate result of a conviction for having killed seven people on the Staten Island ferry in September, 1999."

Danny Messer muttered loud enough to be heard, "So it runs in the family. Guess we know which side he got it from."

"I will not debate the morality of my mission with you at this time, Detective Messer." Professor Collier tired of the interruptions. A hint of stone hardened his expression. For the first time, Danny and Sheldon felt serious menace. If provoked, this man would kill them without hesitation. "While I sympathize with your frustration, remember who controls your life, and the lives of your two friends."

The revolver rose to target the most volatile of his three hostages. Collier thumbed back the hammer with an audible double-click.

"Do not goad me to anger, young man. I do not deal well with that particular emotion."

Sheldon Hawkes reached across Monroe's prone body and pressed the blood-covered fingertips of his left hand hard against Danny's chest, a desperate caution against losing his temper.

Hawkes hissed at his friend, "Let Mac handle it."

_"Danny,"_ Mac called over the phone, _"you heard what I said. Don't antagonize him."_

Messer struggled to comply with both friends' sound advice. Every time he acquired partial control of his runaway fears, one look at Montana's still body and milk-white face wiped it out. Each breath brought the metallic aftertaste of spilled blood--iron and copper, a familiar tart-sweet odor.

He couldn't stop stroking her hair with his trembling hand.

_Montana. Sweetheart. You're so still. I've never seen you when you weren't movin'. Not even when you're asleep. You're always kickin' off the covers, or wigglin' around 'til I'm about ready to tie you down so's I can get some sleep. This son of a bitch--and Mac Taylor--need to remember what's important here ... You._

"Mac, if you were in here, seein' Lindsay's blood all over your hands, all over _her_, wouldn't you want to tear this sick bastard's balls off with your bare hands and feed 'em to 'im with extra salt and vinegar?"

_"No, I can't say I wouldn't feel any different,"_ Taylor admitted. A voice in the background (belonging to Captain Baynes) hissed at Mac to remain calm. _"But I wouldn't let my desire for revenge blind me to the circumstances. Everyone in this situation needs to remain calm and reasonable. That includes you, Messer. And you, too, Hawkes. For Lindsay's sake, we have to resolve this as quickly as possible._"

Taylor's voice softened, cajoled. _"Can you do this, Danny? Can you rein it in long enough to settle this?"_

Strung by his mentor's rebuke, Danny Messer hung his head. His face burned with shame, even as his anger simmered just beneath the surface. The slightest spark would set it off again, regardless of what Mac, Sheldon, or anyone else might say.

_"Danny?"_

"Yeah, Mac." His head jerked up and down. "I can do it. For Lindsay, yeah. I'll do it."

_"Good man,"_ Taylor said.

"Now that the additional drama is past," Nathan Collier regained control of the conversation, "back to the matter at hand."

_"You said Gavin was convicted and sentenced to death,"_ Mac recapped. _"Are you claiming your grandson is innocent?"_

"No, Detective. I know my grandson well enough to say with absolute certainty, he murdered seven people on the Staten Island ferry."

_"Then what-"_

"I am dying," Collier said. "An inoperable brain tumor. The doctors tell me I have a two weeks, a month at most, to live. I want my sole surviving relation to outlive me, even if it is only by a few days."

_"You must know the Governor can't commute his sentence,"_ Mac argued. _"That would be impossible. You're asking for something that can't be done!"_

"I understand that, Detective."

Mac's voice took on a frustrated edge. _"Then what do you want me to do?"_

"According to Adams, 'Law is merely the expression of the will of the strongest for the time being.' Thirty years ago, different laws ruled. Thirty years from now, new laws will be in effect. We can only deal with the laws as they stand at this particular day and time. In this day and time, the Governor can grant a temporary stay of execution. I'm not asking for much. Thirty days would be more than sufficient."

_I dunno what I was expecting_, Danny thought, his whole body gone numb with fear, _but it sure as hell wasn't THAT! He's insane, as in certifiable! There's no way in hell the Governor will do what this crackpot wants._

Danny looked up at the clock on the wall over the utility room doorway. The analog hands of the white-faced timepiece read 5:21.

_Unless Mac can pull a rabbit out of his ass, we have six hours and thirty-nine minutes to live._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N #1: I offer the longest chapter yet as a small token of appreciation to my reviewers ... and to make up for the fact that it will be after Christmas before I can post another chapter. Enjoy. Merry Christmas!_

_A/N #2: Ooops. My bad. I left out an important piece of information--the basis for my deadline. I've edited the previous chapter--Gavin's execution is set for that night, at midnight. That is how Danny arrives at his time limit._

Chapter 5

Who knew that a dial tone could be deafening?

After delivering his one and only demand, Collier terminated the call, leaving Detective Taylor to deal with the consequences of their brief contact.

Mac's mind flashed through the preceding conversation, filtering out the riotous emotions and ranking the points in order of their importance. Three of his friends were hostages, one of them seriously injured. Priority would be given to getting Lindsay to a hospital. Their secondary but only slightly less urgent goal was getting Danny and Sheldon out without injury. A far distant third objective would be to save Nathan Collier from himself.

To do any of the three, they needed information.

He turned to Don Flack. The black-haired detective's eyes rested on a photograph perched on the corner of Mac's desk, a candid snapshot of the entire team at last year's Christmas party. A red, pink, and white, sequin-studded Santa hat perched at a jaunty angle on Danny Messer's head, the pompom end falling over his right eye. Lindsay stood beside him, giggling even as she struggled to hold up her partner's drunken weight.

Next to a warmly smiling Mac Taylor, Sheldon Hawkes leaned over to get a better look, cell phone in hand to take his own pictures of Messer's drunken antics. Don and Stella completed the picture, laughing and sharing the moment.

"We'll get them out, Don. That's a promise."

"I know, Mac. I know. Tell me what you want me to do to make that happen."

"Contact the warden out at Clinton, see what he can tell us about this Gavin, particularly any outside contacts he might have had, who he exchanged letters with, who might have come to visit him besides his grandfather. Maybe we can find someone who can influence the way Professor Collier will react. Then pull the court records. I know it's after normal business hours, so it's going to be hard, but get me everything you can, fast as you can."

"I'm on it." Flack glanced one final time at the photo then vanished through the door.

"Stella, you take the university angle. Contact his department head, any of his fellow faculty members, staff, students, anyone who can give us some insight on this man. But before you do that, call Sid. We need his medical expertise. Get him up here right away."

Bonasera pulled her cell phone from her pants pocket, powered it up, and hit speed dial nine. After the briefest of contact, she flipped the phone closed, offered Mac a wan smile, and disappeared out the door.

Taylor faced Captain Baynes. "How much maneuvering room do we have? Would the Governor order a temporary stay of execution?"

"I don't know," the larger man admitted. He ran the nail-bitten fingers of his left hand across his short-cropped red hair then tugged down on the collar of his bulletproof vest. "In my nine years as a negotiator, I've never had this type of request. Since the Governor wouldn't be freeing a felon or permanently altering the outcome of the trial, he might agree to a short stay."

"Then let's contact him. The worst he can do is say no. Maybe if he know what's at stake, he'll play along."

"Okay, Mac. I'll phone the Chief, ask him to call the Governor's office."

"Thank you, Lar."

The negotiator left the office without a backwards glance, cell phone already at his ear.

"In the meantime," Tom Robbins said, "I want to see what's happening in there. We'll run a fiber optic worm under the door, see what images it can pick up. Mind if I borrow your A/V tech to do that?"

Mac gave him a 'go-ahead' gesture. "Whatever you need."

A three-toned, electronic twitter from the equipment next to the phone caught everyone's attention. They turned in time to see Adam Ross pull a silver-and-blue flash drive from a USB port in the right side of the recording equipment.

The auburn-haired A/V tech intercepted Mac's question. Waving the wafer-thin drive in the air between them, he said, "As soon as I help with the fiber optic line, I'll take this recording to the lab, see if there's anything that will help."

"Okay, Adam. Thanks."

Ross and Robbins left, trailed by all of the remaining SWAT members. Left alone in his office, Mac sat down in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to stem a tension headache. He threw his head back onto the headrest of the padded chair and released what tension he could in one heavy gust of air. He stared at the phone until the world around him grayed out.

Mac's hand hovered over the receiver of the telephone. Fingertips curled in as he deliberately settled his fists on his lap. The urge to call the break room again, for no other reason than to hear Danny and Sheldon speak, to be there for Lindsay if only as a faceless voice, was overwhelming.

He closed his eyes and prayed--for strength to face this trial, for a speedy conclusion, and most especially for the lives of his friends.

Approaching footsteps roused Mac from his thoughts. He rose from the chair even as Sid Hammerback ran into the room, followed seconds later by Tom Robbins.

The senior coroner in the Medical Examiner's office wore street clothes instead of his usual medical scrubs. Stella must have caught him leaving work for the day. The older man met Mac with an expression of combined confusion and fear.

"Mac? What's going on? Stella called, said to get here right away, that there's a hostage situation, but she didn't give me any details. No one mentioned any body for me."

Before Mac could answer, the SWAT commander said, "That's because we don't have one, and hopefully we won't. We need you to answer some questions."

Hammerback blinked twice in Robbins' direction before he turned to a more familiar source of information. "Mac, what's going on?"

Mac waved Sid to sit on the nearby couch. The two men settled onto the padded, creaking leather surface. Rollins, arms crossed over his barrel chest despite the thick SWAT armor, moved over to Mac's peg wall, his attention allegedly on the articles and photos tacked onto its surface.

"We have a single gunman holding hostages in the break room," Mac told Sid. "He has Danny, Sheldon, and Lindsay with him. Sheldon has a minor head wound, but Lindsay's ... Lindsay's been shot. To get them out, we need your medical expertise."

"I'm not sure how much help I can be," the coroner said, "but I'll do what I can."

Robbins gestured in the direction of the break room. "Collier said he has an inoperable brain tumor. What does that mean for us out here, and for our people in there?"

"What do you mean?"

A definite undercurrent of impatience deepened the SWAT commander's voice.

"I mean, how will a cancer in his head affect this man's behavior? How will it direct his emotions, his reactions? Will he suffer from dizziness or fainting spells, any moment of inattention where we might get a jump on him? Will it make him more or less prone toward violence? Will he remain coherent or will he start to ramble and drift?"

"Without the details of his condition, it's impossible to say." Both Robbins and Taylor grimaced--that wasn't what they wanted to hear. "Any of those things could happen, or none of them."

"The man has a lump in his head," Rollins said. "How difficult could it be to judge his mental stutus?"

"Dozens of factors can influence this man and how he will behave. Before I can help, I need to know the type, size and grade of the tumor. What is its location in the brain? In what way and how badly has it damaged or displaced the surrounding tissue? Has it metastasized to other organs in the body, and if so, what effect will their degradation have on his health? Is he on medications with their own individual actions, interactions and side effects? Has he undergone chemotherapy or radiation?"

Sid sighed and looked away. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help. Until I know the specifics, I'm working blind."

Robbins ground his teeth and said, "That's not very helpful, Doctor."

"Would you rather I lied?"

"Sid." Mac touched the ME's back. A brief expression of gratitude flashed across his face. "We understand. And there is a way for you to help. You can track down Nathan Collier's physicians. You'll know the right questions to ask."

Galvanized, Sid said, "That I can do."

CSI:NY CSI:NY CSI:NY CSI:NY

_I've done everything I can for Lindsay,_ Sheldon thought. _Now, we wait._

The pressure bandages were holding and the external blood loss temporarily suspended. He could find no definitive evidence of uncontrolled internal bleeding--no bruising or distension, no rigidity in the thoracic or abdominal tissue. With a bullet buried somewhere in her chest cavity, there had to be some damage to blood-carrying vessels and internal organs.

Without the proper equipment or experienced assistance, he could do nothing more for Lindsay except monitor her condition and pray that symptoms of shock didn't set in.

Lifting a fold in the silver space blanket to cover her back, Hawkes tucked it tight around her left side, leaving Danny to mirror the action on her right. He couldn't bring himself to object when Danny left her right hand free of the cover. The Italian boy from Staten Island held onto that hand with manic desperation.

"That's it then?" Danny said.

Sheldon fell onto his buttocks and leaned against the lower kitchen cabinets. The raised metal ridge of a hinge dug into his shoulder, but he was too wrung out to care. Covered in Lindsay Monroe's blood from head to toe, his gloved hands rested on the floor, limp and shaky. His insides felt like Jell-O under a heat lamp, while a hard knot bound his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Too tired to move, he ignored the red drop of blood that seeped from the cut on his brow. The single drop landed on his cheek, slowly rolled down his face and dropped off his jaw.

"All we can do now," Hawkes said, "is wait. And pray."

Eyes bright with misery, Messer looked like he wanted to vomit right then and there. Looking around for anything more to do, Danny gathered up a large cotton dishtowel that had been dislodged from the counter during the initial violence. He folded it neatly, smoothed out the smallest wrinkle, and slipped the cloth between Lindsay's cheek and the cold floor.

"We've done all we can for her," Danny said. Desperate for something constructive to take his mind off their situation, he gathered various items from the first aid kit and knelt beside Hawkes. "Now let's take care o' you, shall we?"

"I'm fine."

"Suuuure you are," Danny droned as he put on gloves and ripped open an alcohol prep pad, "which explains that little trail of red stuff leakin' from that cut through your eyebrow there."

He slapped the inch-square, alcohol-soaked pad directly onto the narrow cut. Hawkes yelped and squirmed from the antiseptic sting, but the press of Danny's body against his held him in place against the cabinet front.

"Dammit, Messer, that hurts."

"Ahhh, quit your whinin', Hawkes. You're like a little baby, cryin' cuz you got a boo-boo. Suck it up, man."

Hawkes glowered at him through one irate eye. The other eyelid was pinched closed against the pain and to prevent alcohol from irritating sensitive ocular membranes.

"I will remember this, you know."

Danny answered with a seriousness not in keeping with the earlier teasing banter. "Yeah. I don't think I'll be forgettin' it anytime soon, neither."

Danny raised the pad enough to examine the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but it wouldn't take much to break open once more.

Hawkes pointed to the white medical box. "There's a tube of butylcyanoacrylate in the kit. You can use it to close the wound."

"Medical superglue, huh?"

Danny dripped the medical glue onto the cut and pressed the edges of skin together. Hawkes hissed and grimaced but held still the required thirty seconds. When Messer slowly released pressure on the wound, the incision remained closed.

"Think I'll add a couple of butterflies," Danny said. "Just in case."

"Thanks, Dan," Sheldon said when Messer was finished.

Wrapped in their own thoughts and worries, both men jerked when their captor asked, "Tell me, Dr. Hawkes. What is Detective Monroe's condition?"

Hawkes checked Lindsay's pulse, pupil reaction, skin temperature and color before answering, "Stable ... for now."

"In that case, might I call upon your services to tend to this injury on my arm?"

Danny Messer bared his teeth at the older man. "You come in here wavin' a gun, shootin' at us, holdin' us hostage, doin' _this_," he pointed at Lindsay's back, "an' you expect the doc to patch you up?"

With a grunt to overcome the exhaustion of released tension caused by the earlier, frantic medical activity, Sheldon Hawkes power-pushed himself off the floor. The doctor ignored the sting of his own wound and the wave of dizziness that followed the abrupt shift in position. He pulled off the bloody latex gloves and threw them into a nearby pile of biohazard debris.

Messer threw down his own bloody gloves, grabbed at Sheldon's slacks and pulled. "What the hell are you doin', Doc?"

"Being nice to him now may mean he'll be willing to do something good for us later," Sheldon reasoned.

"Like what!"

With a wary glance toward Collier, Hawkes leaned down to whisper directly into Danny's ear, "Like let Lindsay go before the midnight deadline."

Out-reasoned, Messer fell silent.

Removing adhesive bandages, tape, alcohol swabs, a tube of antibiotic ointment, and latex gloves from the first aid kit, Sheldon Hawkes stepped away from his friends and approached Nathan Collier. The older man sat in one of the break room chairs, its back pressed against the vertical blinds of the outside window, in the section closest to the kitchen counter.

This position gave Collier a perfect view of his hostages and the break room door. It also placed the hostages between him and any attempt by the police to rush the room.

"One moment, sir," Collier said, the barrel of the revolver lifted in threat.

While Sheldon waited, the professor ejected the clips from two of the three detectives' weapons, and placed weapons and magazines on the highest shelf in the cabinet. The third weapon--Sheldon's own Glock--slid into the back of the man's waistband.

Collier removed his jacket, draped it across the back of the chair then returned to his seat, injured arm held out, and said, "Proceed."

Hawkes knelt next to Collier and spread his supplies across the seat of a nearby chair. He ripped a dozen various sized strips of adhesive tape and tacked one sticky end of each to the edge of the seat. After putting on clean gloves, he ripped into the alcohol swab packets, laid out bandages, and took the lid off the antibiotic cream.

Under constant threat from the snub-nosed .38 pointed directly at his forehead, Hawkes pulled the material of Collier's shirt sleeve away from the sticky wound. The shallow groove ran from the inside swell of Collier's wrist, starting some three inches from his left thumb and laid at an oblique angle. Tracks of blood still oozed from the bullet-made gouge.

"It's a simple graze. I can clean this and bandage it up easily enough."

"As Marcus Aurelius once said," Collier quoted another historical source, "'Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears.'"

"When he said that," the doctor replied, "I don't think he was referring to a bullet wound."

Collier chuckled, but the gun barrel never wavered. "True enough. I prefer to believe he meant that one should work through their pain until it is behind them, no longer of any real consequence."

"That," Sheldon countered, "or he wasn't referring to physical injury at all, but social or societal injury. If you don't think of yourself as insulted then no insult exists."

"You are an astute man, Dr. Hawkes. Someday you must tell me the story of how a man such as yourself, a learned surgeon and gifted medical practitioner, became a criminalist."

_It'll be a cold day in hell before you hear that story, old man._ Sheldon wisely kept the angry thought to himself.

The doctor cleaned the wound track with the alcohol swabs, placed a thick dollop of antibiotic ointment on a 4x4 gauze pad, and applied a generous helping of the opaque gel directly to the wound. One gloved hand held the gauze in place while he reached over and picked up a compression bandage. He laid the thicker pad over the cleaned wound. The injury covered, he held the pressure bandage in place with the strips of pre-cut tape and circled the whole forearm with gauze strip until the dressing was secure. A final bit of tape held the gauze strip in place.

"I thank you for your professionalism in this matter, Dr. Hawkes. Many people in your situation," his eyes darted ever-so-slightly in Danny Messer's direction, "might have taken the opportunity to inflict pain or discomfort as petty revenge."

"Don't think I wasn't tempted," Sheldon said. He stared Collier straight in the eye. A twitch along his jaw line jumped in time with the clenching of his teeth. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do."

"I am curious. Why did you restrain the impulse?"

"I want to ask a favor."

Collier smiled. If not for the constant menace of the gun in his hand, his expression might have been benignly paternal.

"Allow me to guess. You wish me to release Detective Monroe in exchange for your kind treatment of my injury. One that, if I remember correctly, the young lady in question inflicted upon me."

"She's no threat to you, not anymore. Saving her could buy you a lot of good will with the people out there." Hawkes gestured in the direction of the other laboratory offices and the police officers undoubtedly filling the space. "Even more importantly, it will put in some good points for you with Governor Rice."

Collier nodded then sighed and shook his head. "Detective Monroe's delicate state of health may be the primary impetus that brings about the circumstances I desire. I can't let her go. Not yet."

Desperate to help his friend, Hawkes tried another angle. "Then let me ask for equipment from outside. IV kits and tubing, some normal saline, maybe plasma. She's lost so much blood. That little bit of extra volume could mean the difference between life and death."

"Return to your friends, Dr. Hawkes."

"Professor Collier, _please_."

The hammer of the revolver clicked. "Return to your friends. Now."

Caught in a struggle to control himself, Hawkes didn't move, even under threat of the gun. _How could I fail Lindsay so badly? There has to be something more I can do!_

"Shel," Danny called. "Give it up, man. Come on back here an' sit down."

"You should listen to your friend. For once, he is the calm soul to someone else's fiery temper."

"Fiery temper?" Hawkes repeated. The tick along his jaw line sped up. "If that sweet girl dies because of you, I'll show you a fiery temper like none you've ever seen before."

"I believe you, Dr. Hawkes. I do, indeed, believe you. Now _you_ believe _me_." Collier's eyes hardened to blocks of gray-green stone. "If you do not return to your place at Detective Monroe's side, I will shoot you where you stand."

"Sheldon, come on, man," Danny's voice took on a desperate edge, "get ba--Shel, she moved." Messer's voice hitched. "She squeezed my hand! _Montana?_"

CSI:NY CSI:NY

" ... -tana? C'mon, swe- ... those warm brown eyes o' yours. Baby? ... do it, kiddo. Wake ..."

Her world consisted of nothing more than flashes of sensation, disconnected, disjointed, all presented out of context. She burned and froze, sometimes both at the same time. No feeling clashed with too much stimulus. A warm light bathed her closed eyelids, tempting her to open them, even as a heavy lassitude pulled her back toward the comforting darkness.

" ... layin' down on the job ... 'd Mac say 'bout ..."

She floated, feeling no particular desire for direction or purpose. She existed. For the moment, that was enough.

"Montana, _please_. I need you ... wake up for me?"

She knew that voice. Loved the way he drawled her name, couldn't wait to hear him whisper to her in the pre-dawn hours, before they left their bed to get ready for work. The voice always came with hands that brought life to places she never dreamed existed.

She loved waking in the morning. The first thing she'd see would be his eyes, so vulnerable and sweet, shining with lust and a loving, wicked humor.

" ... priddy eyes ... "

Hawkes hid a snort of amusement behind a hastily raised hand, but he couldn't disguise the humor in his eyes. Messer groaned and pulled a horrible face. Of all the first things for her to say when she regained consciousness, it would be something very embarrassing.

"Aw, Montana!" Danny whined. "'Pretty'? That's, like, the word o' death for a man! My eyes ain't 'pretty'. Handsome, maybe," he conceded. "Attractive--I could accept that. Hot as hell, even! But not 'pretty'."

Lindsay's lids raised just enough to reveal a tiny sliver of brown. A blurry face topped with spiky-cut, blond hair hovered in front of her own.

"Dnnee?"

Messer leaned forward, kissed her cheek, and whispered, "I'm right here, sweetheart. Right here beside you. Sheldon is here, too. You're gonna be okay, y'hear me? Y-you're gonna be fine."

Lindsay tried to look around but couldn't focus on anything further away than the man who knelt beside her. "Whhhuh ... whu 'appened?"

"We're ... uhhhh ... you, me, and Shel, we're, um ..." Danny huffed and shrugged. "Well, it's kinda complicated."

Knowing she'd never get a straight answer from Danny Messer without major effort, Lindsay looked around for another source of information. "Shel?"

"I'm here, kiddo," he said, even as she felt the blanket over her shift and his fingers settle around her left wrist. _Why is he checking my pulse?_

"Tell me?"

"We're in the break room at the lab. We're ... we're hostages, Lindsay. There's a man here who is demanding a temporary stay of execution for his grandson. You've been shot."

"Sh ... shot?"

"Single round in the back. The bullet's still inside, so don't move, okay? You understand me, Lindsay? Lay still."

A full minute passed before she could absorb the explanation. "'kay. Won't move. m-m-Mac?"

"We talked to him earlier," Hawkes said. "He knows what's happening. I'm sure he's doing everything he can to get us out."

The closer to full consciousness she came, the further she moved from the comforting shroud of numbness. Bolts of pain shot all the way to her toes then back to her brain. Lindsay whimpered and shifted. Her grip on Danny's hand tightened until all blood was forced out of both their fingers.

"Mmmmm ... hurts. Danny, hhhrzzz!"

"Easy there, country girl." Messer did his best to distract her from the pain. He kissed her knuckles, forehead, and cheek. "Just think of the hurt like it was a buckin' bronco or some such thing. Ride it out. You done somethin' like that before, aincha? Ride a buckin' horse? This should be easy compared to that."

Lindsay tried to laugh, until pain lines creased her forehead and accented the vertical frown line between her brows. Her skin shade lightened even as tension around her mouth pinched away all color in her lips.

Danny looked toward the first aid kit, spotted a single-dose packet of Excedrin, and asked Hawkes, "There's some aspirin in there. Could she have that for the pain?"

The doctor shook his head. "In addition to its analgesic properties, acetylsalicylic acid acts as an anticoagulant. The last thing she needs is to lose more blood."

Lindsay looked up in time to see Danny's eyes brighten with tears of misery.

"God, baby," he whispered his thoughts out loud, "you're hurtin' and I can't do a damn thing to help you. What kinda man does that make me?"

"Danny? I'll be f-fine. Don' ... don't cry, 'kay?"

Messer looked toward Hawkes, undisguised anguish written across his face and body. "She's hurtin' bad, Shel. Ain't there somethin' she can have?"

"Yeah, there is," Hawkes said. "It's not much but..."

Sheldon ripped open two single-dose packets of Aleve.

"Lindsay?" Moving to the left until he knelt next to her head, Sheldon leaned over into her field of vision. Lindsay was several slow seconds opening her eyes. "I have some Aleve here. It's not much, but it might dull the pain a little bit. You'll have to take them dry, I'm afraid. I don't want you to move around any more than you have to, so you can't sit up to take a drink."

Lindsay tried to talk but didn't have enough energy to force out the words. She nodded permission and accepted the capsule-shaped tablets when Hawkes laid them on her tongue.

After five seconds, Lindsay's face scrunched up, her cheeks sank in, and her lips puckered. She emphasized the bitterness with a brief display of her tongue.

"Bleh."

Danny Messer re-took his place in her line-of-sight. His fingers resumed their gentle carding of his girl's soft, honey-brown hair. His thumb rubbed back and forth across her forehead, unconsciously trying to wipe away the lines of pain.

"Awww, Montana. Don't pull a face like that. They can't taste all that bad. I mean, I have _seen_ some of the things you're willin' to eat. Hell, I've eaten a lot o' them witcha!"

Lindsay found enough strength to open her eyes once more and share a brief grin with her friends. Both Danny and Shelton were there, hovering close enough to practically share her skin. Under normal circumstances, their closeness would annoy, maybe even irritate her. Given the circumstances, she found their presence comforting.

Movement caught her attention. Monroe moved her gaze away from Messer's craggy, familiar face. The gunman watched them from the near the outside window. He'd closed the vertical blinds.

The old man with the balding head, silvery, boxed beard and brooding, gray-green eyes studied Danny then herself then Danny again. The clarity of his undivided attention was not natural.

Lindsay shuddered. _There's something there, in his eyes something ... focused, intense. Fanatical,_ she thought. _I've faced down crazed, drugged-up mass murderers that don't frighten me as much as this man's steady gaze._

Danny responded to her shakes by laying down flat beside her and resting his arm across her waist. From that angle, he followed the line of her sight and met Collier's unblinking stare.

"I won't let him hurt you anymore," Danny whispered for her alone. "Whatever it takes, sweetheart, I will get you out of this, I swear."

**QUOTES:**

"Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears."Marcus Aurelius quotes (Roman emperor, best known for his Meditations on Stoic philosophy, AD 121-180)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

A/N: Okay, my bad. I believed all of the New York cop shows that threaten perps with the death penalty. I just now found that the practice was declared unconstitutional in the Fall of 2004--right about the time of CSI:NY's pilot episode. No way could I jack with the timelines to get Lindsay on the team yet still have a legal death penalty. What to do, what to do ... I'm committed to this story line, so please suspend belief and go with me on this, okay? I apologize for not thoroughly researching the situation and promise to do better in future.

"How long until we can see what's happening in there?"

Adam Ross brought the low-riding cart to a stop and unloaded a half-dozen black or silver aluminum boxes and cases. Some five feet away stood the wall of the break area's storage room--a solid structure as opposed to the more vulnerable and dangerous front-facing glass. From this location, they were protected from sight and weapons fire but close enough to effectively work the surveillance equipment.

"Depending on how fast I can thread the wire underneath the door," Adam replied, his voice a soft, not-quite whisper, "I'd say three minutes. Five max."

"Optimal view would be from a high vantage point," Lt. Robbins replied equally as soft. He pointed toward the front of the break room, where glass joined with the solid masonry wall. "I say run it through up there, the uppermost corner of the glass."

Shaking his head, Adam knelt on both knees, hunched over the smallest aluminum case. He opened the container and removed a thirty-foot ribbon of fiberoptic cable stored inside a thick layer of gray foam padding. He laid the slender, silver coil down and moved onto the next container.

"Even if I could cut a hole in the glass without him hearing me, which might be possible if I were very, _very_ careful," the A/V tech continued to shake his head until he finished challenging the SWAT leader's suggestion, "the vertical blinds extend over the top of the windows. I couldn't thread the fiberoptic through without moving the blinds. One plastic panel hits another and another. Next thing you know, the whole wall of blinds starts to sway back and forth, clicking and clacking against each other. No way he'll miss seeing--or hearing--that."

"What about going even higher," Rollins pointed towards the white acoustic tiles directly overhead and made a squiggly motion with his fingers as through turning a screw, "running it under the ceiling tiles? We did that in the Lewiston Industries hostage situation last month."

Again, the A/V tech shook his head even as he unloaded an external power unit from the fourth container. "Totally different architecture and situation. That section of ceiling isn't designed to bear anybody's weight. There's no way to get someone up there to cut through or lift the acoustical tiles."

"The outside windows?"

"Same problem as before--the blinds will move, either from camera insertion or from external wind blowing through the opening. Not to mention the noise we'd make either rappelling down the side of the building or operating the window cleaner's rig." Seeing the SWAT leader about to voice another suggestion, Adam cut him off with a sharp slash of his left hand. "Trust me on this one, Lieutenant, I know what I'm doing. If I could get you a high view, I would, but there is no other place we can do this. Either the camera end of the snake goes under the door or we don't see in at all."

Rollins growled once then stalked away, leaving Alan to assemble the surveillance equipment in relative peace. He stacked the storage containers against the wall, well out of the way then laid out the devices in an optimal order--cable, signal booster, receiver, recording unit, secondary data storage device, a slender Dell laptop and a peripheral 26-inch high-def plasma monitor. A small, portable power supply with multiple jack points sat near them all.

Adam assembled each piece with as much speed and care as he dared, all the while trying very hard not to imagine his friends being held at gunpoint only twenty or so feet away. It was too easy to empathize--he clearly remembered being held hostage by an Irish gang determined to recover their mega-shipment of drugs. His right hand still bore scars from cigarette burns used to torture the lab's security codes from him. Nightmares still plagued many nights. He could still feel the terror and pain and the absolute certainty that he, Danny, and the two uniformed cops were only minutes away from dying.(1)

_Danny Messer kept me sane during that whole ordeal,_ Adam remembered. _He let those bastards beat the living shit out of him just to buy me time to grab a bottle of sulfuric acid from my kit. That bottle later saved four lives, including our own._

_I owe you, Danny. I'll do whatever I can to get you, Lindsay and Sheldon out of there alive. Hang in there, buddy. Just hang in there._

He tested the system by angling the camera end of the cable around the corridor. Images sprang onto the plasma screen. Now all he had to do was put the business end in place.

Breathing deep to steady his nerves, Adam Ross stood up, cable in hand, and took one step toward the break room door.

Rollins grabbed Adam by the scruff of his white shirt collar. Yanked backwards, the A/V tech's feet slid on the slick floor, forcing him to scramble to remain upright. He clutched the rolled cable tight to his chest to keep from dropping it.

"Whoa there, cowboy," Rollins hissed, "where are you going?"

Ross gave the SWAT leader a look that screamed _'duh'_. "Ummmm, to run the cable under the door?"

"Like hell you are."

"Why not!"

"You're not armored, for one thing." Rollins held out his hand. "Give me the cable. My men will slide it under the door."

Adam stared from the flexible, metal-encased cable to the nearest SWAT members to Rollins. Without another word, he passed over the coil. He then fished a roll of 1-inch duct tape from his pocket and handed it to Rollins.

"You'll need to feed a minimum of three inches beneath the door, preferable in one of the corners. This will help stabilize it and keep it from rotating, as well as making it harder for Collier to notice. I'll be over by the monitor. Once it's in place, I can adjust the angle by remote. Use the tape to hold the cable in place."

Two members of the heavily armored SWAT team alpha belly-crawled to the door. One of them unrolled the fiberoptic cable behind him while the other provided armed cover. Once they arrived at the door, it took ten seconds to slide the camera end beneath the sill and tape it down with strips of tape. They both gave thumbs-up to their commander and retreated to safety.

The instant the wire went under the door, Adam activated the camera and remotely adjusted the angle.

The color image was grainy, hard to focus, and distorted with a characteristic fish-eye effect, but he could see enough detail to fully appreciate the situation. Despite the break room furniture that rested between the camera and the room's occupants, the video showed Sheldon Hawkes seated on the floor, his back against the lower cabinets, one hand reaching out to check Lindsay's pulse. A pile of bloody material--gauze, cloth, empty wrappers, etc.--lay not too far from Sheldon.

Danny Messer lay belly-down on the floor, as close to Lindsay Monroe's other side as he could get, his arm resting across her lower back as he whispered directly into her ear.

Because of Danny's position, all he could see of Lindsay was her legs and feet. Her limited movements were sharp, jerky, twitchy with pain. It hurt Adam to see her in such pain, but at least he had proof that she was still alive. They all were.

Nathan Collier sat in a chair next to the window, his weapon aimed directly at his hostages. A bandage was visible on his left forearm.

Adam blinked tears from his eyes. He whispered, "They're all still alive, but ... it doesn't look good."

(1) episode "Snow Day"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

This wasn't Stella Bonacera's first trip to the campus of Chelsea University. Between special lectures, various criminal cases, continuing education or accreditation courses, and two semesters of evening classes, she'd driven to the campus a hundred times. The College of Fine Arts was located in the George A. Kelpling Building, two blocks south of Lincoln Blvd.

Considering the late hour, she called ahead to make certain the Dean of the college would still be in his office.

Parking anywhere on campus was at a crapshoot at best but was especially bad around Kepling. She'd leave her vehicle as close as she could get it to the building, parking space or no parking space. A wise move as it turned out, considering that spring-term finals were two weeks away and Kepling Building shared parking with the university library.

Stella also called ahead to campus security and warned them off. Three friends' lives at stake--she had neither the time nor the inclination to play power games with Parking Services.

While she had her phone out, it was tempting to call Mac, get an update on the situation. She resisted the urge--if Mac had news, he'd call. Still, the waiting was hard.

The detective, her vehicle's police lights still pulsing, stopped against the curb closest to the Fine Arts building. The George A. Kepling Building was a sandstone structure surrounded by 100-year-old oak trees, rolling lawns bisected by numerous, winding sidewalks and dotted with meticulously tended flower beds.

Late afternoon light from a far westering sun cast extended shadows across the area, slowly driving people indoors. Sunset was less than an hour away.

Dozens of people stood, sat, or lay on the lawns and seating areas, stubbornly ignoring the creeping afternoon shadows. Some held open books or laptops, others talked with friends or chatted on cell phones. A few curious eyes, attracted by the strobing police lights, turned Stella's way. Cop training noted basic details of height, weight, age, and activity, all the information going toward a general threat assessment. Seeing nothing suspicious, Detective Bonacera killed the engine, pocketed her keys, and stepped out.

Leaving the red and blue lights blinking through her windshield, Stella hurried inside. She saw only five people between the outside door and the third floor, and all five of them were on their way out with briefcases, bags, or purses. Most of them smiled at her and nodded. One big woman with short, silvering hair and a hunter green coat murmured a tired "'night" as they passed in the elevator doorway. Stella nodded back but said nothing in return.

The door to the Dean's offices was a mahogany frame around a frosted white glass, the College of Fine Arts' logo etched into its surface. Stella opened the door and stepped into the outer receptionist's area, currently empty. A bell chimed over her head.

At the sound, an older man stepped out of the innermost sanctum. He was an older gentleman with no hair, a thin line of beard running along his jaw line, and a friendly, open expression on his creased face. He wore a gray suit jacket and pants, white shirt, but no tie.

"You must be Detective Bonacera?" The man stepped forward and presented his hand. "I'm Wayne Delacort, Dean of the College of Fine Arts."

"I appreciate you staying to speak with me, sir." Stella accepted the handshake. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"I'm more than happy to help. You did say the matter was urgent and concerned Nathan Collier, but nothing much more than that. Please, step into my office. We can talk more comfortably there."

Stella followed the Dean through the inner doors.

The large chamber was separated into two basic areas. To the left, beyond a tall archway, was the true office area with desk, bookshelves, credenza, two visitor chairs, and drawer cabinet. Forward and right of the door was the visiting or lounge area, with plush leather loveseat, two matching chairs, two side tables, and a coffee table. A small oval conference table with three chairs occupied space between the giant window and the loveseat. The two areas shared a floor of polished hardwood with occasional rugs or runners.

The centerpiece of the office area was an oversized executive desk carved from brightly polished mahogany, its side panels engraved with the Chelsea University seal. Its front face held shelves containing small statues, vases, candles, figurines, framed paintings and photographs. Among them, Stella spotted a photo of Wayne Delacort and five older men, Nathan Collier among them.

The Dean led Stella to the visiting area and waved her to the nearest chocolate brown leather chair.

"Have a seat, Detective." He gestured toward a small kitchenette discreetly hidden behind a paper-and-wood Shoji screen made to resemble brown, gray, copper, and silver stained glass. "Can I get you anything? Water, soda?"

"No thank you, sir."

As Delacort pulled a bottle of water from a small refrigerator and reappeared from around the screen, he spotted Stella's eyes on a large art piece mounted on the room's longest interior wall.

"That was a gift from one of my graduate students. Two years ago. A most gifted young man, a positive talent for turning simple metals into magnificent art pieces. You like it?"

"I'll be honest, Dean Delacort. I'm not much into art. To me, it looks like it's either Xena's chakram weapon(1) or the cogs of a very big wheel." She shrugged. "It certainly catches the eye."

"As it is meant to. One of the things I've striven for in this department is a nurturing of ideas, no matter how far outside of the traditional box it might lead."

"That's all good." Stella fought very hard to keep any hint of impatience or censure out of her voice. She did not quite succeed. "I would love to come back and discuss it with you some other time. Right now, I have a hostage situation that involves three friends of mine, and I'm hoping you can give me some information that will help me save their lives."

"When you called ahead, you mentioned needing information on Nathan." As he talked, Delacort went to his desk, picked up a file, and returned to the visiting area. He sat on the end of the loveseat closest to Stella. "I requested his personnel file. Fortunately, I was able to catch the supervisor before she left for the night. May I ask ... is Nathan in some kind of trouble?"

"I really can't say," Stella replied. "What can you tell me about him? I understand that he holds Emeritus status?"

"Yes, Professor Emeritus of Literature. He's received numerous national and international awards, almost every major honor in our field of study. Nathan was--still is, actually--the most prolific author we have. Last I heard he had over 400 articles, 22 textbooks, and 51 anthology collections to his name. I particularly enjoyed his comparison of the Egyptian story of Rhodopis to its much later successor, the more commonly recognized Cinderella story. He is particularly good at finding parallels between similar tales in different cultures." He laughed. "Not to mention a head for remembering quotes to fit every occasion imaginable."

"How well do you know Professor Collier?"

"I would say quite well, at least within the confines of our work here at Chelsea. I joined the faculty some thirty years ago. He was already tenured by that time, an Associate Professor, as I recall. He was an invaluable help to me, especially in those early days."

"I understand he retired five years ago. You recommended him for Emeritus status?"

Delacort nodded and said, "Yes, that is correct." His expression was heavily curious with a noticeable hint of concern. "I was Dean of Fine Arts for his last four years as full-time faculty. It was the least I could do, though it took no real effort on my part. He earned the rank, and no one on the faculty senate contested his right to the designation."

"Was he particularly close to anyone that you knew of? Other faculty, staff members, students?"

Delacort thought about it for several seconds before he sighed and shook his head. "No one comes to mind. There was Professor Montgomery, but he died last year, as did Nathan's long-time secretary, Agnes Taylor. His wife and daughter passed away some years ago. And the less said about that scapegrace grandson of his, the better."

"Anyone else? Think, it could be very important."

The Dean probed his memory again with equally negative results. "I'm sorry. Everyone with whom he was particularly close is either dead or suffering from Alzheimer's or dementia or some other debilitating condition."

"What about you? You've known him for 30 years. Knew him well enough to nominate him for a very prestigious title. Would he listen to you?"

For the first time in the conversation, Wayne Delacort looked uncomfortable. He killed time by organizing the paper in the personnel file, set it down, and took a long pull from his water bottle.

Stella repeated her question, stressing each word. "Will he listen to you?"

"Before I answer that, I ... I must know. What has happened? Nathan is in trouble, isn't he? He has done something. Something violent. Something that is putting the lives of your friends in danger."

"What makes you say that?"

The Dean leaned back onto the couch, the water bottle still in his hands. The leather popped and squeaked for several seconds then fell silent.

"You know about his cancer?" When the detective nodded, he sighed once more and leaned forward long enough to set the bottle on the coffee table. "From the questions you're asking, I have to reason that you're looking for someone with the ability to influence or impact Nathan's actions, someone who might can help you talk to him. That person is not me."

Stella opened her mouth to argue but the Dean waved her silent.

"I don't know if the tumor caused the change in his personality, or what triggered it," he said. "Ten months ago, the current and emeritus faculty, including Nathan, met to discuss the best way to distribute alumni donations. The funds, close to three million dollars, were to be presented to needy students as scholarships or grants. We do this every year. There's never been a problem."

"Until this meeting," Stella guessed.

Delacort nodded. "Until this meeting. No one expected this to happen. Certainly not me."

Stella took a pen and a flip notebook from her pocket and went to the first blank page. "What happened, exactly?"

Delacort's eyes fell on the chakram-like artwork but his memories were well in the past.

"Nathan has always the most gentle and tolerant of men. Even in the early days of his association with Chelsea, when racism was not only accepted but applauded, Nathan spoke out against it. That makes what happened that day so surreal. In the middle of the meeting, when we're discussing certain students whom members felt deserved the assistance, Nathan stood up and broke out into the most vile, disgusting diatribe of bigotry that I have ever heard in my entire life. We were all so stunned. No one could move to silence him, we just couldn't believe what he was saying."

Stella hurried to capture the story on her notepad. "He'd never exhibited this kind of behavior before? These opinions of prejudice?"

Delacort shook his head. "Never. By the time someone moved to redirect the discussion, Nathan had built up a fiery head of steam. There was no stopping him. The bile kept pouring forth. I urged him to sit down and think about what he was saying but he ... he actually tried to hit me. Next thing any of us knew, he was swiping items off the desk, throwing pencils, cups, pads, folders, anything he could lay his hands on. Shattered one of the windows with a two-inch binder. We called security but ... by the time they got there, it was like a switch had been thrown. The violence and bitter language stopped. Nathan apologized for his actions and went quietly when the guards escorted him off campus. I haven't spoken with him but maybe two or three times since that day."

"You say this meeting was ten months ago?"

"Yes, shortly before Fall semester started."

"And when was he diagnosed with the brain tumor?"

"Shortly after that. I believe the incident was the proverbial 'last straw.' It forced him to seek medical help. The doctors found the tumor within a few weeks." Delacort studied Stella's face and asked again, "What is he doing that involves the police? Earlier you mentioned a hostage situation."

Instead of answering, Stella pointed to the personnel file with its giant red "CONFIDENTIAL" stenciled diagonally across its front. The folder was a solid three inches thick.

"May I see that?"

"Under normal circumstances, university regulations would require that I say no. I might even be tempted to hold it as ransom for an answer to my question."

"Please don't."

"I won't, Detective. There's obviously something serious. And since lives are at stake, I feel that an exception from the rules must be granted."

Delacort handed the file to Stella. She hurriedly flipped through the documents. Finding his collegiate resume, she looked through it and blinked in surprise.

"His Curriculum Vitae is 39 pages long!" she said. "Single spaced!"

"As I said," Delacort smiled, "he is an international expert, well respected, highly regarded, and extensively published. He has done much in his life."

Stella could not hold down the bitter thought, _Yeah, he's done a lot in his life. Including take hostages and shoot Lindsay. No amount of good work can outweigh that evil._

She next checked personal data--next of kin, emergency contacts, or life insurance beneficiaries. All were blank.

She also found a large black binder clip filled with letters of support or recommendation for Professor Collier. A few were from fellow faculty or from university staff, but the vast majority was from students. She recorded the names and return addresses of the dozen most recent letters in the file.

She also found letters from physicians, authorizing medical leaves due to illnesses throughout his time on the faculty. Stella jotted the names down and made a mental note to get them to Sid. Maybe the ME could use them to more quickly track down Collier's medical records.

Stella examined the entire file then handed it back to the Dean.

He accepted the folder and said, "I hope that I, and this file, were of some help."

"I do, too," Stella accepted a closing handshake. "Thank you again. If we think of anything more, we'll contact you."

Dean Delacort handed over his business card. "Here are my numbers. I've put my home address, home phone, and personal mobile phone number on the back. Please call me if I can help in any way."

Stella slipped the card under a paper clip attached to her note pad and put it into her pocket.

"I will."

Stella hurried back to her car. Juggling keys and cell phone, she slid behind the wheel only to stop, frozen, key in the ignition but engine still dead. A horrible thought came to mind.

_The cancer caused Collier to act on his feelings of violence and rage toward minorities. It could happen again, and if it was violent ten months ago, how much worse might it be now, when the tumor's had more time to spread?_ She shuddered. A chill of dread shot through her heart._ That could mean ... oh God. Sheldon._

A/N: And you thought it couldn't get much more complicated. Hee! Oh but wait, there's more yet to come!

(1) For those who never saw "Xena: Warrior Princess," Wikipedia describes the chakram as a "throwing weapon that was used by the ancient Indians [peoples of India. It is a flat metal disc with a sharp outer edge from 5 to 12 inches (13−30 cm) in diameter. ... It was used by Indian armies, mostly by Sikhs."


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: For those reviewers who asked so nicely (waves to Trixy2), here's an "update" on what's happening in the breakroom. Short chapter, I know, but there are still more twists and turns to come, trust me. Really. I apologize for the delay. A flat tire, two (count 'em, TWO) floods in my condo from a broken washing machine valve, an eye infection that baffled three optometrists (eventually found to be caused by dust and dirt kicked up by tearing out flood-ruined carpet), and various other real-life emergencies has made recent weeks ... quite miser- ... er, memorable._

Chapter 8

_Being held captive is 90 percent boredom and 10 percent terror,_ Lindsay Monroe thought to herself.

Danny Messer, laying close against her right side, wove his fingers through her sweaty hair and asked, "How you doin', Montana?"

"Okay ... except ..."

Danny tensed and rose to his knees, hands fluttering over but not quite touching her back. "Except what? What is it, what's wrong?"

Lindsay's glower lost much of its power due to her position flat on her stomach, staring up at him with basically one eye. "Will you ... stop that?"

He blinked, confused, "Stop what?"

"Hovering. If something ... is seriously wrong ... I'll tell you ... and Shel."

"Then why'd you say something was wrong?" He tilted his head on confusion.

"I just can't ... breathe as good as I'd like."

Danny freaked. "Shel, she's havin' trouble breathin'!"

Lindsay rolled her eyes and endured the upsurge of attention from her lover and her friend. Hawkes settled in on her far side, fingers over her wrist's pulse point, while Danny squeezed her other hand tight against his chest and hovered over her like a pit pull protecting a helpless pup.

"Lindsay, talk to me," Sheldon said from her blind side in his most "urgent doctor" voice. Unable to turn her head to see him, she instead glared some more at Danny.

"Baby," Messer's voice quivered, "how bad is it?"

"You try ... growing a pair a size C cups and ... laying on them ... see if you can breathe easily."

Messer snickered and deflated with relief, his eyes bright with more than emotion.

"Montana, sweetheart, if I grew a pair of C cups, you an' me," he pointed back and forth in a here/there gesture, "we wouldn't be havin' any kind of relationship, you get my meanin'?"

Slightly more serious about the situation, Sheldon moved around until he could see Lindsay's face more clearly. "How bad is it, kiddo? Really?"

"It's just ... hard to get any kind of ... of deep breath. I feel ... squashed ... starved for air." Her expression turned recognizably stubborn. "Roll me onto my side."

"Whoa, no-no-no, there, baby-girl!" Messer objected. "Shel said not to move, so move you _ain't_!"

"I think it'll be safe enough."

Danny stared, stunned and slack-jawed, at his friend. "Are you serious, man? You think it's okay for her to move?"

"She needs as much oxygen as she can get, but her weight is pressing down on her breasts. The position curves her spine, compacts her chest cavity, and limits lung expansion. It's forcing her to breathe fast and shallow when she really needs slow and deep." Sheldon lifted the silver blanket to examine the still-white pressure bandage through the remains of her shirt. "The bleeding's under control for now. If we--and she--are very careful, we can roll her safely enough."

Hawkes looked Lindsay in the eye and stressed, "You let us do the moving. Lay as still and relaxed as you can. It's going to hurt but it'll ease up once you're settled again. If you feel any kind of internal disturbance, you let us know, okay?"

"'Internal disturbance'," Messer repeated. "What, like her heart and her left kidney decide to switch places?"

Sheldon answered Messer's sarcasm with some of his own. "That would be one example, yes."

"I know what you mean," Lindsay said. "Expected pain is okay but ... anything unusual ... sing out."

"That's my girl."

Sheldon tucked her left arm tight against her side and loosened the blanket so that it wouldn't tangle around her legs in the move. He checked her vital signs, temperature, and skin condition one final time. Satisfied, he nodded to both Lindsay and Danny.

"Okay, Danny, we're going to roll her my way, right shoulder up, left down. There might be a little jar at the end, when she rolls off her left arm. Be ready for that--hold her steady, and don't let her roll more than 90 degrees. I'll stabilize her head, torso, and shoulders, you watch her hips and legs. Got it?"

Messer licked his painfully drip lips. His free hand twitched and floated over Lindsay, unable to determine where best to touch her.

"You sure about this, Hawkes?" he asked.

"It's a risk, I know. But so is poor air intake. If we had some oxygen to give her, I'd say to stay flat, but considering the circumstances-"

"Meaning we don't have any oxygen to give her," Danny deliberately vented his anger in the direction of their captor, loud enough Nathan Collier to hear, "so we have to do something else."

Sheldon looked at Collier and said, "We're going to roll her onto her side to help her air intake."

"Yes, Doctor. I overheard. Rather difficult not to, given the limitations of our current environment. Your medical knowledge and experience outstrip mine. I bow to your expertise."

"Ready?" Hawkes waited while Messer worked through the last of his misgivings. The Staten Island boy answered with a single, sharp nod. Sheldon gave the blanket a final flutter, cupped Lindsay's head in one hand, and slid the other between her right arm and ribcage. "Okay. On three."

On the count of three, Hawkes and Messer rotated Lindsay's body upward in a single, smooth motion. She cried out once, a short, barked squeak and whimper, before biting her lip. Within two seconds, she was settled on her left side.

Hawkes shifted to examine the bandage, his fingers pressed against her carotid pulse the entire time. Messer rearranged the towel under her cheek. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead, all the while murmuring reassurance through his tears.

Linsday could now breathe without obstruction, but the wave of renewed agony in her back left her dizzy and half-conscious. By the time the tsunami receded and she reconnected with her surroundings, Danny was absolutely frantic. Reassuring him would take more energy or concentration than she had at that moment, so she settled for breathing deep and banishing the pain.

Desperate to take her mind off the reawakened pain of her back, she watched Collier open a leather snap case and place its contents one item at a time on the breakroom's countertop.

"What is he doing?" she whispered.

The items were bottles--squat little plastic pill containers with their white, child-proof twist tops and taller, dark brown bottles with liquids. One after another came out of the bag to line up, soldier fashion, next to one another on the counter.

_Where did that snap case come from?_ Sheldon thought. _I don't recall seeing it earlier. Maybe he hid it in one of the cabinets, pulled it out while we were busy with Lindsay._

_An even better question to ask might be, what does he have in it besides pill bottles?_

The one threat that could make the whole situation worse would be explosives. There might be a bomb or a grenade or something of that nature in the case. Sheldon somehow doubted that would be the case. Collier might be presenting them with a combination benevolent and domineering, seesaw personality but he didn't seem the type to either favor or know how to use explosives.

Collier could have been a demolitions expert in his youth--Korea or Vietnam, maybe. He was the right age for either one. Unless or until he exposed a bomb, they had no way of knowing.

Hawkes couldn't read the precription bottles from that distance or even guess the nature of the pharmaceuticals until he actually saw some of the liquids, pills or capsules. However, there was one set of items he could recognize--a white-blue-and-red box of 30-guage ultrafine syringes and bottles of insulin.

_Diabetic insulin? Wait, Collier said he has an inoperable brain tumor. Two months or so to live. Maybe it's metastasized to other organs, like the pancreas. If he goes into diabetic shock and can't take his meds in time, he could react out of panic, decide to shoot us all before he passes out._

_Can this situation get any worse?_

_Or ... or might this be a blessing in disguise? No way to tell yet. Just have to wait and hope that something breaks before he decides to kill one of us or we lose Lindsay._

"You."

The detectives looked up. Nathan Collier, the gun still in his right hand, aimed their way, pointed to Sheldon with an insulin syringe in his left. Having caught their attention, Collier signaled Sheldon to move away from Lindsay and Danny, toward the cabinets.

"Get away from her."

When Hawkes stared down at Lindsay in confusion. What was wrong? Hadn't he been treating her this entire time with Collier's blessing? What was he planning to do?

When his command was not obeyed switly enough, Collier transformed into something violent, something twisted and hateful. "I said, get away from her, you black bastard."

Collier's sudden turn of personality caught his prisoners completely by surprise. What had happened to turn him from congenial host to raging captor? Nothing in their past interactions with Nathan Collier hinted at any kind of bigotry. Where had the racial slurs come from?

"What do you see when you look at me, 'Detective Doctor Hawkes'?" The otherwise cultured his voice dripped derision. "Do you see vulnerability? Do you see your master? Or do you simply see another white man who stands in your way?"

Collier jabbed his gunarm forward, the .38 pointed directly at Sheldon Hawkes' forehead. He thumbed back the hammer.

_"What do you see?"_

Frozen in place, his breath sharp with fear, Sheldon Hawkes stared down the barrel of the gun and prayed. Hard.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

A/N: I may work in a medical school but I am by no means a medical expert, especially in regards to brain tumors. I have attempted to make this as realistic as possible. Any inaccuracies are my own, for which I apologize. At least I got the HIPAA privacy requirements right!

Stella Bonacera nodded greetings to the three men in the office--Mac Taylor, Tom Robbins, and Larry Baynes--in time to hear Robbins report, "Ross has the 'eye' set up. The picture's not optimal--we had to settle for a floor view instead of a birds-eye, but we can get enough information to keep track of everyone's condition and position."

Baynes asked, "Where is Collier?"

"He's in a chair next to the window," Robbins said. "The hostages are between him and the door."

"How are they?" Mac asked.

"It looks like the report we received during the call was accurate. Hawkes has a bandage on his forehead, and Monroe is on the floor. I really couldn't see anything about her injuries, except to judge by the blood, they're extensive. It looks like Hawkes has done all he can for her for the moment."

"Who is monitoring the video feed--Adam?"

"No," Robbins shook his head, "he's taken the audio of the first call to his lab. I have one of my men watching what's happening inside."

Mac opened his mouth to ask another question. When he spotted Stella, he turned his attention on her and barked, "Anything?"

"Nothing." Stella frowned, taking the lack of helpful information personally. She paced back and forth and fought to control her temper. "I spoke with the Wayne Delacort, the Dean of Fine Arts at Chelsea. He was Professor Collier's colleague and supervisor for over thirty years. He personally recommended Collier for Emeritus status after Collier retired from the University five years ago. Dr. Delacort couldn't recall anyone Collier was particularly close to, at least anyone who is still alive. All of his contemporaries are either dead or suffer from conditions like Alzheimer's or dementia. He couldn't think of a single person who might talk Nathan Collier into ending this standoff."

"Not even himself?" Mac asked. Considering the circumstances, he had little patience for half-answers or people who 'just didn't want to get involved.' "If he was Collier's contemporary and superior for thirty years, he must have some influence on his behavior."

Stella shook her head. "They had a major falling out about ten months ago, a disagreement over significant alumni donations. Collier expressed very opinionated and racist ideas on the types of grants that should be offered to incoming undergraduate students. Security escorted Collier off campus. It was around the time when Collier finally went to the doctor and discovered his condition. One thing Delacort did mention--the racist angle was new. Collier had never exhibited any kind of ethnic-oriented problems before that day."

Larry Baynes speculated on the cause, saying, "Behavior changes due to the tumor, maybe?"

"We'll know more after Sid speaks with his oncologist." Mac turned back to Stella. "What about his personnel records? Anything helpful there?"

Again, Stella shook her head and ran nervous fingers through her blonde hair.

"Nothing, Mac. I checked emergency contacts and next of kin. They were both blank. No one in Personnel or Benefits--who were still in the office, at least--could even remember him. There were over two hundred letters in his personnel jacket from former students going back to the start of his tenure. Most were very positive, but tracking these students down at this late date might be a waste of time. We don't know if," she ticked off each point by tapping an fingertip, "we can find them easily even with the help of the Chelsea Alumni Association, they live close enough to get here in time to talk to Collier, or a plea from a former student could break through his psychosis."

"I'm afraid, my news isn't much better."

Sid Hammerback stood in the office doorway, looking like someone had kicked his puppy into a muddy ditch.

"I don't know how much more bad news I can take." Mac sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed again. Putting it off would not help his friends. He waved to the Medical Examiner, a combination 'come in' and 'give it to me.' "What do you have, Sid?"

"Thanks to the names Stella found in his personnel file, I was able to track down his primary care physician and his oncologist." The ME came into the room and joined the group. "Under normal circumstances, the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act would have prevented either physician from releasing any sensitive PHI to me."

Baynes and Robbins looked at one another, puzzled. Baynes asked for both of them, "PHI?"

"Personal health information, specifically any sensitive data that would allow someone to track down another person or discover specifics about their medical histories, treatments, etcetera. HIPAA, however, has a loophole for situations such as this. If the patient is a danger to himself or others, the doctor is _required by law_ to report any and all information to the police."

"So what did these doctors have to say?" Stella asked.

"They both had pretty much the same news to report. Collier has a grade 4 glioblastoma in his temporal lobe." Hammerback pointed to the specific area on his own temple. "They're both sending their files over by courier. They should arrive inside the next 20 to 30 minutes."

"Grade 4. Is that bad?" Robbins asked.

"Grade 5 means he's dead."

"Oh."

Mac's voice took on a definite hint of scold and more than its share of 'get back to the point already'. "Sid."

"Yes. Sorry. By the time his behavioral problems and headaches became severe enough for him to seek treatment, the tumor was too far advanced for surgery. It's also metastasized--spread--to his spinal column, pancreas, colon, and prostate. His oncologist has him on AEDs--antiepileptic drugs--due to increasingly frequent seizures. Unfortunately, AEDs can also react with certain chemotherapy agents. These interactions can cause some rather nasty adverse effects."

"Nasty how?" Larry Baynes asked.

"Primarily sleepiness, depression, or confusion. He may also develop problems walking, speaking, or seeing. Occasionally, symptoms may include aggression, insomnia, and psychosis."

Stella bobbed her eyebrows and said, "So far, we've definitely seen the aggression and psychosis."

"According to his PCP, Dr. Stephen Tyler, there was an incident in his office during Collier's last appointment, around two weeks ago. Collier grew angry and violent, injured a nurse when he shoved her against a wall."

"The violence is escalating," Stella said.

"Since his pancreas isn't working properly, he's also on periodic injections of insulin. This might be a good thing," Sid continued. "If he didn't remember to bring his full battery of medications with him--including insulin--he will be susceptible to several debilitating conditions, including petit-mal or grand-mal seizures or diabetic shock. He could be fine one second and on the floor, seizing or passed out cold, the next."

Outside, one of the elevators arrived on the floor with a soft ding and a hiss of displaced air as the doors opened. Before the doors could close, Don Flack ran into Mac Taylor's office, out of breath with the rush to deliver his news.

"We're in trouble, Mac," Flack said the instant he stepped into the room. "Collier's grandson is dead."

Gasps and other sounds of dismay rocketed around the office.

"What happened?"

"He was killed during a race riot in the prison yard about a year ago. A white supremacist group and a Puerto Rican gang went toe-to-toe with homemade knives and bludgeons. According to the Fed's final report on the incident, Gavin Anderson wasn't in any gang. He was a bystander who got caught in a race-motivated fight between the two gangs. Took a homemade shank through his throat sometime during the scuffle, before the guards could hose down the yard with water cannons. Two other inmates died that day."

"Does Collier know this?" Robbins asked.

Don nodded. "Warden notified him personally."

"Then what is going on here?" Stella shared confused looks with everyone in the room. "Why is he doing this?"

Sid provided the answer. "Memory loss. He can't remember that his grandson is already dead. It could have a psychological origin, be a result of the pressure against or damage to his cranial tissue by the glioblastoma, or a combination of both. However it's happened, all he can remember is that tonight, midnight, was Gavin's scheduled time of execution."

"Gavin Anderson died in a race riot at the prison," Mac reasoned. "The racist angle of his disagreement with Dean Delacort may have its roots right there." He turned to Sid Hammerback. "What can we do about this? Do we tell him the truth?"

"No, no." Sid shook his head most emphatically. "Challenging his delusions is the _last_ thing we should do. It could trigger an escalation of violent behavior, perhaps even spark his racial hatreds or a suicidal rage. He'd take it out on the closest possible targets."

"Lindsay, Danny, and Sheldon," Mac said.

Stella nodded. "Especially Hawkes."

"We have to play along," Sid offered, "make him think we're going to comply with his demands, keep him calm and as focused on the situation as we can, and pray something breaks that gives us an edge."

"But will-"

Tim Robbins' hand went to his radio's ear bud. He listened for a moment, tensed from head to toe, and said, "Something's happening in the break room."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Danny Messer raised his hands slowly and knelt on one knee, sliding over to place himself between Nathan Collier and Sheldon Hawkes. His forehead and upper lip shown with nervous sweat and his hands shook but he held his voice steady.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy now. Let's not let tempers run away here," he said.

The revolver never wavered. "Move out of the way, Detective."

"Dan," Sheldon whispered. "What are you doing?"

Messer never took his eyes off the revolver. "Shut the hell up, Hawkes. I'm tryin' to save your ass here."

Lindsay could not see the drama from her current angle. Though barely conscious, she struggled to roll over. Danny's left hand remained raised. His right dropped onto her shoulder and stilled the movement.

"Lay still, baby doll."

"Dannee?" Lindsay called, a soft, disjointed whisper.

"Everything's gonna be fine. You just rest."

Collier took a menacing half step forward. The gun's angle changed from Hawkes to Messer.

"You heard what I said. Move out of my way."

Danny braced against the threat of Collier's weapon and the pull of Hawkes' hands on his shoulders. He swallowed hard then licked his dry lips, breathed hard and deep but remained in place.

"I dunno what just happened here," Messer said. "I dunno what made you so angry, but it's not worth killin' someone over. Not yet."

Collier sneered. "If I am truly determined to kill him, do you honestly believe you can stop me?"

"Probably not," Danny admitted. "But I gotta try."

"What kind of man are you to protect a black bastard like _him_?" Collier spoke the word with a wealth of venom and hatred.

"Sheldon Hawkes is my friend. I can't let you kill him. An' even if he weren't, I'd still beg you to stop. He's the only thing keepin' Lindsay alive. We ... she ... needs him in one workin' piece. Besides, a gunshot goes off in here, SWAT'll be through that door faster than you can blink. If you want your plan to work, you have to stay calm, see it through to the end, am I right? If you shoot Hawkes, it's over, right then an' there. You have a plan an' it's workin' so far. You can't muck it up now."

A frown appeared on Collier's face. His eyes darted around as he thought over Danny's words. Something of Messer's calm, reasonable approach found a fissure in the professor's cracked logic.

"Yes, he ... he is a doctor. Isn't he. I do remember that. And I ... I certainly do not want a swarm of police coming in. But ... a black man touching a white woman is ..."

"He's a doctor. The only one we have in here. We need him. Detective Monroe needs him. Please."

"Yes. Yes, I ... I do see your point."

Collier reset the gun's hammer and stumbled back to sit in his chair, the weapon no longer threatening his prisoners. Hawkes and Messer watched him several long, nerve-wracking seconds before deciding the immediate danger had passed.

Limp with relief, Danny Messer sank down onto his heels and braced himself with his left hand against the cold linoleum. Sheldon Hawkes' trembling hand rested on his shoulder.

"Thank you."

Messer smiled then shrugged away his friend's gratitude. "Whatever we did to set him off, let's don't do it again."

Hawkes smiled back and said, "Deal."

"You have won a brief reprieve, Detectives," Collier said. "For the moment, I have no desire to kill any of you."

"But you will kill us," Hawkes said, "if the desire comes back?"

"Lord Byron once wrote, 'The law of heaven and earth is life for life.'(1) That is what is happening here, Detective. The last days or weeks of my life will pass with the knowledge that, however illusionary the situation, I am not the last of my line. Something of my blood will outlast me. If I do not have the end-life that I wish, I will take away life. I will not be the only tragic figure in this sorry tale."

Sheldon worked his memory for a quote that might fight the occasion, saying, "'Law is not law, if it violates the principles of eternal justice.'(2)"

Collier came straight back with, "'If the law supposes that, the law is an ass, a idiot.'(3)"

Danny twisted back and forth, staring from Hawkes to Collier and back again.

"What's goin' on here? Are we in a quote war, like some TV game show? Okay, I got one for you. 'At his best, man is the noblest of all animals. Separated from law and justice, he is the worst.'(4) There, how's that one? Fits the occasion well enough, don't you think?"

Collier beamed at Danny as though he were a favored student making a particularly insightful observation. As quickly as that, Collier reverted to the kindly, benevolent Professor of Literature. All trace of the previous bigotry and hatred vanished as though it had never existed.

"Ahhh. Aristotle. Detective Messer, you surprise me."

"What, that I know a few t'ings?" Danny offered a sarcastic whoop-di-doo swirl of his shaking hand. The momentary retreat of immediate threat turned his insides to jelly and gave his Staten Island accent a sharp edge. "Yeah. Big surprise."

The phone rang. Not expecting the sound, everyone in the break room jerked and stared at the machine.

By the third ring, Danny asked, "Aren't you gonna answer that?"

"I ... I suppose I should. Both of you, lay flat on the floor."

Once his prisoners obeyed, the professor made his way around them. He stepped over packets of sugar and creamer and nearly slipped on a clump of swizzle sticks. He reached the telephone on the ninth ring.

"Collier here."

_"Professor?"_ Mac Taylor's voice came over the speaker. _"It's been awhile since we talked. I wanted to see if there was anything you or my people in there needed."_

"We need nothing except an assurance from the Governor that my demand would be granted. Televised, of course. Ah, which reminds me. I will need a television to witness the broadcast. I did overlook that necessity, I'm afraid."

_"The Chief of Police is contacting the Governor's Office even as we speak. We hope to have news for you soon. The television may take a few minutes. We'll have to run a cable onto the floor and into the room."_

While Collier spoke with Mac, Hawkes whispered details of the situation into the air--number of weapons, presence of the drugs, their conditions, anything he could think of that might help Mac decide how to handle the situation. Adam would easily be able to filter his report from the ambient background noise of the recording.

Realizing what his friend meant to do, Messer left him to it. He lay down beside Lindsay once more and brushed her hair off her forehead.

Carding his fingers through Lindsay's short hair, he called, "Montana? Sweetheart?" She did not answer or give any indication that she'd even heard him. "Lindsay? Lindsay, answer me. Shel. She won't wake up."

Breaking off his murmured report, Hawkes moved closer, examining Lindsay's wound and vital signs. His expression was especially grim.

"She's unconscious. Respirations rapid and shallow. Her heart rate is 125 and rising."

"And that's bad?"

"With her low blood volume, yes."

"You seem to be handling everything quite admirably, Detective Taylor," Collier said. "I trust that I do not need to remind you that time is critical in this situation. Detective Monroe's condition continues to deteriorate despite the doctor's every effort. I am-"

After several seconds of silence, Danny and Sheldon looked up. Collier's attention was not on them or the telephone but on something in the direction of the glass wall.

_"Professor? Is something wrong?"_

"What is that?" Collier muttered beneath his breath.

_"What's what?"_ Mac asked.

"Is that a camera?"

Danny and Sheldon followed Collier's line of sight. Sheldon saw it first--a thin silver cable stuck under the break room door. An elbow to Messer's side and a nod brought it to Danny's attention, as well.

"You will withdraw your camera device this very instant. I will not be spied upon!"

_"Okay, all right. We'll pull it out now."_

Fifteen seconds later, the fiberoptic cable disappeared under the door.

"I am very disappointed in you, Detective Taylor. I thought to deal honorably with you. I expected the same degree of civility in return."

_"I have dealt honorably with you."_ Mac's voice rang with barely contained desperation. _"You never forbade us to set up surveillance. We're concerned for our friends, nothing more. We had to know they're still alive."_

"They are alive. For how long remains to be seen."

Collier slammed the phone down and began to pace. Messer braced himself like a sprinter at the starting line. If he moved fast enough, he could take Collier down before the madman saw him coming. At the very least, he'd keep him busy until SWAT could rush in.

Hawkes held him back with a firm grip on his forearm. The distance between them was too great. Collier would shoot Danny before he moved five feet.

The professor stopped and turned toward his hostages. He stared from Danny to Lindsay and back again. An unhealthy gleam in his eyes belied the otherwise benevolent expression on his face.

"I did warn them not to play games with me," Collier said. "Some form of payment is due, I believe."

Collier's watched beeped a pre-set reminder. He stepped over to the row of medicine bottles on the kitchenette counter. He tipped one tablet out of the nearest bottle and swallowed it, chasing it down with bottled water from the refrigerator. He thought for several minutes more before he smiled and turned his attention back to his hostages.

"I have one final quote for you, Detective Messer. 'Love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so easy.'"

Something in the ominous way Collier said the words caught Danny's attention.

_That old bastard has something planned._ Danny broke down the quote, to find its hidden meaning._ Love. Carry love with us. With us ... when we go. An easy end?_

Collier looked at Lindsay Monroe and smiled. Danny's blood froze.

_God. No._

**QUOTES: **

(1) The law of heaven and earth is life for life.  
- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron), _The Curse of Minerva_ (st. 15)

(2) Law is not law, if it violates the principles of eternal justice.  
- Mrs. Lydia Maria Child

(3)"If the law supposes that," said Mr. Bumble, "the law is an ass, a idiot."  
- Charles Dickens, _Oliver Twist_ (ch. LI)

(4) At his best man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst.  
- Aristotle

(5) Love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so easy.  
- Louisa May Alcott


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_A/N #1: Okay, fair warning. I have my escape bunker ready. It's fully stocked with all the food, water and fanfic I need to wait out the siege. There's no way any of you can get to me. Prepare yourself because I guarantee you didn't see this one coming._

_A/N #2: Serious note. My apologies to everyone for the offensive language Collier uses in this chapter. The prejudices dredged up by the cancer have their roots in life as it was in the middle of the 20th century. Such derogatory comments were often part of everyday speech. Considering Collier's mental deterioration, it's reasonable that he would revert to those terms when referring to Sheldon Hawkes. The various uses of the "n" word are not and never will be part of my own vocabulary._

Danny hunched over, shielding Lindsay from Collier's view. Sheldon did the same.

Their captor stood silent for a long moment. His eyes lost focus as he stared off into nothing. Collier swayed as though listening to some distant and hypnotic music meant only for him.

"'Passing too eagerly upon a provocation loses the guard and lays open the body,'"(1) Collier whispered, his voice growing louder with each word and his decision to act. "Or as John said, 'One soweth, and another reapeth.'(2)"

Danny glanced toward Hawkes long enough to ask, "What is he yammerin' about?"

Nathan Collier locked eyes with Danny Messer. The Jekyll and Hyde aspect of Collier's personality--beneficent teacher one moment, raging villain the next--turned again, throwing him back into a more violent and volcanic turn of mind. All trace of emotion vanished from his face, but his eyes changed to twin obsidian flakes--bottomless, emotionless and deadly sharp.

At that moment, the kindly professor was more dangerous than a hardened sociopath and equally as willing to kill.

"Allow me to translate, Detectives," Collier said, "You will reap the fruits that Mac Taylor has sown."

The CSIs stared from each other to their captor and back. The statement, ominous by itself, was made further so by its monotone, resolute delivery. Collier's life revolved around words, his own and those borrowed from literature. The timbre of his orations held as much meaning as the words themselves.

The thespian lilt was gone, leaving behind a deadly resolve.

_Whatever he means to do,_ Danny thought,_ it won't be pretty._

Collier pulled Sheldon Hawkes' Glock from the waistband at the small of his back. While the pistol covered his hostages, he opened the cylinder of the .38 and checked the number of bullets inside. Thumbing the cylinder back in place, he laid the snub-nosed revolver on a break room table and stepped away from it.

"In order to expedite my demand, I will explain. As payment for Detective Mac Taylor's machinations, one of you will die. My initial thought was to use Detective Monroe as my example. She is seriously wounded and may die before my demand is met. This makes her the most expendable of my hostages."

"Damn you, Collier!"

Danny surged to his feet. Sheldon did the same. The doctor grabbed Messer by the shoulders and hung on for dear life.

"Come anywhere near her, you sick old bastard," Danny snarled; the CSI struggled against Sheldon Hawkes' restraining arms, "and I will kill you with my bare hands!"

Collier tilted his head to them and said, "Calm yourself, Detective Messer. There is a way for you to save your sweet Juliette."

"You're crazy," Danny gasped, shaking with dread. "Brain tumor's got nothin' to do with it. You're stark ravin' mad, full stop!"

"Perhaps," Collier admitted, not the least bit phased by his prisoner's rage and condemnation. "The fact remains, I am in charge, and if you want your lady love and your ... friend ... to live, you will do as I say."

With a violent twist of his body, Danny tore free and moved to shield Lindsay. Arms thrust out to his sides, palms facing forward, he took a single step forward, daring the man to shoot.

"What? You'll kill me in their place? Go ahead then. I'm right here. What are you waiting for, you sick bastard? You say someone has to pay for Mac doin' his job? Okay then! Shoot, damn you!"

"Messer, you idiot." Sheldon tried to pull him back. Danny planted his feet and refused to budge. "What are you trying to do? Sit down and shut the hell up."

The Glock inched over. The barrel pointed directly at Sheldon's head.

Collier's voice lost all cordiality. "Go sit down, _boy_, and let the white men talk."

"Professor, please," Hawkes pleaded. "Mac didn't mean-"

Teeth bared, Collier hissed each word, saying, "Sit. Down. _Negro._ I will not tell you again."

"Go on, Shel," Danny urged, adding a push with his elbow against Hawkes' chest even as he glared daggers at Collier for the insult. "Stay with Lindsay."

Clearly reluctant, Hawkes stepped back and sat down beside Lindsay once more. His hand sought her pulse but his attention remained on the drama unfolding in the room.

"Okay, Collier," Danny said. "I'm listenin'."

"I offer you a way out for your sweet lady and your ... friend. You--and only you--will reap the bitter seeds which have been planted here today."

"A way out?" Danny repeated. He really, seriously did not want to hear the answer, but he had to know. "What do I have to do?"

Collier tilted the Glock in the direction of the table with the revolver. "There is a single bullet in that gun. You will use it. On yourself."

Danny staggered and almost fell. His chest hurt, as though he'd been struck a hard blow against his sternum with a sledgehammer. His lungs hitched and his vision misted over.

Behind him, Sheldon Hawkes gasped, his breathing abruptly arrested.

Ears buzzing with the sudden loss of blood from his upper body, Messer breathed, "You want me to ... _what?_"

"You will pick up this gun, put it to your head, and pull the trigger."

"No." Danny took a revolted, hasty step back. "No way in hell. No effin' _WAY!_"

"Very well. If that is your decision--"

Collier angled the Glock's barrel toward Lindsay Monroe.

Danny thrust his hands forward and yelled, "No! Don't!"

"Have you changed your mind, Detective? The sooner this unpleasantness is done, the sooner Detective Taylor will learn his lesson."

Instinct for self-preservation raged against obeying Collier's twisted demand. Danny's Catholic upbringing threw in its own admonitions. Suicide was a 100 percent, guaranteed, fully punched ticket on the Hell Train.

How could he stand in front of the gates to Heaven and confess to blowing his own brains to mush? Even with Collier's threats to kill Lindsay or Shelton, if Danny pulled the trigger to kill himself, it would count as suicide in Saint Peter's book.

_I don't want to die. God knows that. How can I do this? He stared at Lindsay's slack, pale face. How could he not? If I don't blow my own brains out, he'll kill Lindsay. I couldn't survive that, havin' to live with knowing I valued my own life more than hers._

Bile rose up and burned his throat.

_I'd end up eatin' my gun anyway, so what's the difference? Now or later, it'll all be the same._

**"'**The consciousness of being loved softens the keenest pang even at the moment of parting; yea, even the eternal farewell is robbed of half of its bitterness when uttered in accents that breathe love to the last sigh.'(3)"

"Enough with the quotes, you sick bastard," Danny growled, teeth bared like a cornered animal.

"I humbly attempt to ease your passage to the next life," Collier said.

"Don't. I don't need any more of your 'help'."

_If I do what Collier wants now ... Lindsay has a chance. But it means I'll never see her again. Either here or in the hereafter._

"No. Please. God." Sheldon stared at his friend, horrified beyond anything he'd ever felt before. "Danny, you can't possibly mean to-- Professor Collier, please don't do this. You're a good man with a terrible disease. The cancer has warped you into something you really aren't. Remember the man you were. Before the cancer, you'd _never_-"

"One more word from you, _nigger_, and I will kill you sooner rather than later."

Ignoring the threat, Hawkes tried to reason with his friend. "Danny, you can't go along with this. It's insane!"

"I got no choice, Shel," Danny said around the hard lump in his throat. Breathing was hard enough. Talking was almost impossible. Tears poured down his face as he looked from his friend to his unconscious love.

Sheldon kept shaking his head and whispering, "no," under his breath.

"If I don't, he'll kill Lindsay. I can't let that happen. You know that. I gotta do whatever I can to keep her alive. Even ... even this."

"The shot," Hawkes barked--anything to stall. "It'll bring SWAT into the room, same as it would have if you'd shot me."

"Ahh. True enough." The Professor moved around until he stood close to Lindsay's head. Using the gun, he motioned for Sheldon to lay flat on the floor once more. Once he had them placed to his satisfaction, Collier said, "Detective Messer. The telephone, if you would be so kind."

Danny staggered over to the wall phone and leaned against the wall. He picked up the receiver but didn't dial.

"What should I tell them?"

"You and I have reached an agreement. It will mean a shot will be fired, but they are not to respond. Should they storm the room when the shot is fired, I will kill Detective Monroe before the first man can take a single step into the room."

Sheldon rose onto an elbow and twisted until he could see his friend. "Danny-"

"_SHUT UP, NIGGER BOY!_"

Collier swung the pistol around, backhand. The barrel struck Sheldon Hawkes across the left ear. The CSI yelped and fell to the floor, striking the right side of his head against the linoleum. Blood poured down his face and neck. Castoff drops dotted the floor in a familiar medium velocity pattern. Stunned by the vicious blow, Hawkes moaned and rocked but did not rise.

Tossing an acidic curse toward their captor, Danny dropped the receiver and took two steps toward Hawkes. Collier retrained the weapon, halting the move.

"I have limited time and even scarcer patience," Nathan Collier said, "and you are wasting both. Make the call, Detective Messer. Now."

It took three tries to dial the correct number to Mac Taylor's office. Danny prayed for any kind of reprieve, but Mac answered before the first ring ended.

_"Taylor."_

Danny swallowed against a bone-dry throat then said, "Hey, Mac. It's Messer."

_"Danny, is everyone all right? How is Lindsay?"_

"She's fadin', Mac. Fast. And Sheldon's a bit worse for wear. I'm ... I'm fine, also. Look, um. Mac. The Professor and I, we ... we made a kind of a deal. He's, em, well, he ... uh ... there has to be some kind of payment for the camera thing and ... he and I made a pact--a deal. You'll hear a shot but ... keep the SWAT guys reined in, okay? Don't let them barge in here. If they do, he'll kill Lindsay before they can get a clear bead on him."

_"Deal? What kind of a deal? You sound ... Danny, what's going on?"_

"I know what I'm doin', Mac. Really, I do. It's the only way to get Lindsay and Sheldon out of here alive."

_"What about you? Why didn't you name yourself, as well? Danny, what the hell is he planning to do?"_

"Mac ... if everything starts circlin' the drain, promise me, you'll tell everyone ... well, you know what I'm tryin' to say."

_"It sounds like you're trying to say goodbye. Dan-"_

"Remember what I said, Mac. Don't come in when you hear the shot. He's got Hawkes' gun aimed straight at Montana's head. She'll die if you come in. Okay? I want your word on this."

_"Not unless you level with me. Tell me what you plan to do."_

"It's ... a trade. A straight trade. Nothin' more. Mac, I ... I gotta go. Tell Don an' Stella an' Adam an' Sid ... tell everyone--" _goodbye and I love you all,_ "--thanks for everythin' they're doin' to get us out alive."

_"Don't hang up. Danny, talk to me! Dan-"_

"Later, Mac."

Danny set the receiver back in its cradle. Taylor's voice poured from the earpiece until the instant the line disconnected. Messer leaned his forehead against the handset and gasped for air. The harder he struggled to breathe, the less usable air he pulled in.

Collier knelt beside Lindsay Monroe's head and pressed the barrel of the gun, its open end still moist with Sheldon Hawkes' blood, against her temple.

"Now, Detective Messer. Pick up the gun."

As he staggered toward the table with the weapon, Danny's vision tunneled. He felt cold all over, like ice, but his insides burned. His lungs hurt for lack of oxygen, even as his skin shuddered with every push of air-conditioned air across his sweat-soaked body.

His right hand hovered over the butt of the weapon. _I need to pick it up. I have to pick it up._ To his trembling hand, he demanded, _Stop shaking already!_ The hand didn't listen.

"I grow tired of waiting, Detective Messer. Or, as Plautus once said, 'Nothing is more annoying than a tardy friend.'(4) Pick up the gun. Now."

The gun settled into his palm, its grip still warm and sweat-damp. Danny swallowed against the urge to sick up. This same gun had fired the bullet that struck Lindsay Monroe in the back. This same gun would, unless a miracle intervened, be his own murder weapon.

Danny's gaze settled on Lindsay's face as he thumbed back the revolver's hammer. His hand shook so badly, the stubby barrel drummed against his thigh. His index finger moved along the trigger guard but refused to slide inside.

When he looked at Sheldon Hawkes, Danny fought hard to smile one last time.

"Take care of her, Shel. Make her understand."

"How can I?" Hawkes cut back, his voice strangled with pain and grief. "How can I make her understand something I don't understand myself?"

"You'll find a way. You're good at that kinda thing. Tell her ... tell her I know she'd've done the same for me if things were switched around."

Choked, he stared away, toward the door, praying to see the SWAT team storm into the room. It wasn't going to happen. Without the spy cam, SWAT had no clue what was going on in the break room.

He turned back to Sheldon and whispered, "Close your eyes, my friend. No need for you to see this."

"Yes there is," Sheldon answered. "I can't stop this, but I can keep you from going through it alone."

"No, man. I mean it. Look away."

Sheldon Hawkes shook his head once, hard. "No."

"Enough, gentlemen," Collier cut them off. "Detective Messer. 'Time drinketh up the essence of every great and noble action, which ought to be performed, and is delayed in the execution.'(5) Either put the gun to your head, say goodbye, and pull the trigger or I will kill Detective Monroe."

"Hell has a special place for people like you, Collier," Sheldon Hawkes said. "I'll pray every night that you fry there for eternity."

"I shall most assuredly do so, Dr. Hawkes. However, such foreknowledge does not change what will happen here tonight."

Danny sniffed back the last of his tears.

_Lindsay. My Montana. If I don't do this, he'll kill her._

"Collier. That Hell Hawkes mentioned. I'll see you there. Soon. And I'll spend all of eternity kickin' your sorry ass around the fire pits."

Danny pressed the jerking barrel against the underside of his jaw, angled upwards toward his brain. He needed both hands to steady the weapon.

"No. God. _Please!_"

Danny blocked out Hawkes' continued prayers. Prayers would not help him now.

He studied Lindsay Monroe's baby-doll face, the angle of her shoulder, the curve of her hips, the petite foot that peeked from beneath the silver blanket, everything he could take in--a final memory. He then closed his eyes, steadied his hands, and did what he needed to do.

With a final prayer to Saint Peter for understanding, Danny Messer pulled the trigger.

**  
**

**QUOTES:**

(1) Passing too eagerly upon a provocation loses the guard and lays open the body; calmness and leisure and deliberation do the business much better.  
- Jeremy Collier

(2) And herein is that saying true, One soweth, and another reapeth.  
- King James Bible, John 4:37

(3) The consciousness of being loved softens the keenest pang even at the moment of parting; yea, even the eternal farewell is robbed of half of its bitterness when uttered in accents that breathe love to the last sigh.  
- Joseph Addison

(4) Nothing is more annoying than a tardy friend. [Lat., Tardo amico nihil est quidquam iniquius.  
- Plautus (Titus Maccius Plautus), Poenulus (III, 1, 1)

(5) Time drinketh up the essence of every great and noble action, which ought to be performed, and is delayed in the execution.  
- Vishnu Sarma


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

_A/N: Wow! So many reviews. Thank you all! For those of you who were concerned that the story is dragging out too long, have no fear. If Collier acts the way I think he will, there are only 3-4 more chapters to go. A story where the majority of the action takes place in the same location is incredibly hard to keep interesting._

_And for the "reviewer" who said the story was getting old, to stop with the cliffhangers, etc... Don't like? Don't read. It's that simple._

The break room was silent except for the hitched, ragged breaths of the people inside its walls. No traffic sounds reached him from outside. No noises filtered in from the other offices on the floor. No equipment hummed with dormant power or usage. No phones rang.

For twenty seconds, no one moved. No one spoke. The rush of blood through Hawkes' body, a usually soundless process, became uncomfortably loud in his head, a kettledrum pounding in sync with his pulse. The stillness was otherworldly, surreal, and stifling.

Jaw loose in disbelief, Hawkes stared at Danny Messer, his mind unable to grasp the truth. He knew what was supposed to happen. He'd braced himself for it.

_Have I gone mad? How ... how could ... This can't be real._

When Danny pulled the trigger, the gun hadn't fired. The .38's hammer had fallen on an empty cylinder.

He was alive--frozen in place, stunned into a stupor, but alive.

Collier pushed himself to his feet, groaning at the creak and pop of his hip and knee joints. The elderly captor walked over and laid a hand on Messer's frozen shoulder.

"'Upon such sacrifices the gods themselves throw incense.'(1) You have done well, Detective Messer. Very well indeed." The professor wrestled the empty gun out of Danny's clawed fingers and slipped it into his pocket. "Return to your place. Sit down and relax. Leave the rest to me."

Eyes vague and glassy, Danny stared at Collier but did not move. None of the words appeared to register. He staggered in place, body trembling so bad he could hardly stand. His hand retained its shape around the revolver's grip long after Collier had removed the weapon.

The professor stepped back and gave Danny a brief nudge in the direction of the other two hostages. Hawkes stood but was nearly overcome by a wave of dizziness from the old and the new injuries to his head. The doctor ignored the wavering vision and lightheadedness and moved to his friend's side.

"Danny?" The traumatized detective stared off into space. His unfocused gaze saw nothing. "Come over here, man. Sit down and let me look at you."

Danny followed where Sheldon led. Getting him to sit wasn't difficult. It more closely resembled a guided collapse than it did a coordinated descent to the floor.

_His skin is cold and clammy. Hard body tremors. Pulse fast, weak, thready. Respirations fast and shallow._ Sheldon pulled his keychain from his pocket and flicked the attached penlight back and forth across Danny's eyes. _Pupils are slightly dilated. _

The examination confirmed his initial diagnosis.

"Danny? You're in shock. It'll pass. You're going to be fine." He tried to rub life back into Messer's limp shoulders and arms. Driven beyond anger, Sheldon turned toward Collier and glowered. "What was that all about? What were you trying to prove? Are you _trying_ to destroy him?"

"Say nothing more until I give you leave," Collier commanded. The professor stepped around his prisoners and reached for the phone. "I have a telephone call to make."

CSI:NY CSI:NY

Mac Taylor sat in his office chair and stared at the silent phone, dread knotting his insides.

Larry Baynes and Tom Robbins stood behind Mac's desk, whispering privately to each other. Stella Bonacera and Don Flack perched on the edge of the couch, ready to stand at an instant's notice.

"What did Danny mean by a 'pact'?" Stella asked, looking to Mac for the answer. "What could Collier possibly want from Danny?"

"There was something in Danny's voice ..." Mac shrugged, ground his teeth in frustration and said, "I can't shake the feeling he was saying goodbye."

Stella rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms and whispered, "I heard it, too."

"The threat to the hostages is escalating," Lt. Robbins said. "It's moving out of everyone's control, ours and Collier's both. Detective Monroe's situation is critical. We have to get her out as soon as possible, but Collier's grandson is dead, so we have nothing to offer in trade. Our tactical options are limited to one: assault. We need to go in. Now."

"If you rush in there, guns blazing, he could kill one, two, or all three of his hostages before you can take him down," Stella argued. She studied the clock on the wall. "It's 8:49. We still have over three hours before his deadline."

"_We_ might have three hours," Mac sighed. "The questions is, does Lindsay? You heard what Danny said. We're losing her. We need to get her out."

"If the situation stretches all the way to midnight, Collier will expect a desperate rush close to the deadline," Larry Baynes, the department negotiator, added. "He might not expect it this early in the evening. Now might well be the best time for a rapid assault."

Flack countered, "The only sure-fire way to incapacitate Collier is to use tear gas, but we can't risk it. The gas could kill Lindsay."

"Any armed action should be our last option, not our fastest," Stella said. "We're playing with real lives here."

"Mac?" Robbins turned to the lead detective. "I have authority from the Chief to lead this operation, but they're your people. You know them best. You make the call."

Mac wanted to think it through but something told him, he didn't have time to think and pace.

"We don't have much choice," Mac confessed. "Without the camera, we don't know what's happening in there. I won't risk their lives unnecessarily, but Collier is growing more violent by the second. He's forcing Danny to do something as 'payment' for the camera--something that involves a gunshot. I won't risk a delay that will hurt or kill any of our people in that room. I say we go in. Now."

Though far from convinced, Stella and Don bowed to Mac's authority. They nodded their support and moved to follow Taylor, Baynes, and Rollins out of the office.

The ringing telephone brought them to a sudden halt.

Mac shared a nervous look with everyone before he hurried to his desk, pressed the speaker option and punched the incoming phone line.

"Mac Taylor."

_"I propose a trade, Detective Taylor. A working television so that I may see the Governor's announcement in exchange for Detective Monroe's release."_

A round of gasps shot around the room. Stella pressed both palms against her stomach, breathed deep, and closed her eyes in grateful prayer.

For the first time since the start of the siege, Mac Taylor felt hope. They could finally get Lindsay some proper care. He glanced toward Baynes and Robbins. The negotiator and the SWAT commander both nodded agreement. The trade was more than fair.

"We can have the TV cart there in five minutes."

_"Then we are agreed."_

"Professor Collier, Danny said something about a pact. A deal the two of you made--something about us hearing a shot. What did he mean?"

"_Detective Messer has proven his courage and his love to my satisfaction. To this day, I still have such a depth of feeling for my Elizabeth. For his sake and the sake of that love, I will release Lindsay Monroe to receive proper medical treatment."_

Whatever Danny did to change Collier's mind, Mac could only pray it didn't extract too high a price. In any case, he would be glad to get his wounded detective out of that room.

"Thank you."

_"Do not thank me. Detective Messer will pay for your lack of caution for many years to come."_

Mac's stomach flipped over. "What do you mean 'pay'? Collier, what did you do?"

_"I did nothing but offer him a choice."_ Collier's voice took on a dark, malicious, stabbing tone. _"The actions were his own."_

"Let me speak to him."

_"I think not. He is somewhat ... unsettled. He is in no condition to provide intelligent conversation."_

"Hawkes then. Let me speak to Sheldon Hawkes."

_"I would ordinarily reject to such an imperious demand, but since you should speak with him regarding Detective Monroe's condition, I will grant the request."_ Clicking, bumping sounds and footsteps played through the speakers, as though Collier set down the receiver and stepped back. _"Get over here, negro. Reassure Detective Taylor and make the transfer arrangements. Say nothing more, else I will change my mind and squander one of my hostages."_

Hearing the racial insult, Mac growled low in his throat. Don matched it with a muttered cussword. Everyone in the room shifted in place, dismayed by the bigoted, intolerant tilt of Collier's voice.

_"Mac?"_

"Sheldon, what's happening in there? Are you okay? What about Danny and Lindsay? Talk to me, dammit!"

_"Lindsay is unconscious. She's lost too much blood. I'm ... well, my ear is ringing and I have one hell of a headache, but otherwise I'm fine. Danny ..."_

"What about Danny? What did Collier do to him?"

_"It's a long story. I really can't get into it now. Lindsay doesn't have that kind of time. Mac, bring the TV stand with a working television to the door of the break room. Adam can set it up with a wireless signal router so that Collier can receive the right channels. Once the TV is inside, bring a gurney to the door and leave it there. I'll bring Lindsay out and put her one it. The medics can then transport her to the hospital."_

"Is Danny hurt?"

Sheldon was silent for too long then finally sighed and said, _"He's not physically harmed. Collier played with his head a bit. He's shocky but he'll be all right given some time."_

Mac didn't like the explanation, not one bit, but let it go. He wouldn't get any more information until the crisis ended.

"Okay, Shel. Give me five minutes. The television and the gurney are on their way."

_"Mac ... Lindsay isn't the only one deteriorating."_

"Collier? Is he listening?"

_"Yes. And no."_

Mac held his breath, thought hard for a long moment, and said, "I get it. Once Lindsay's clear, we'll reconsider rushing the room. If you see the outer office lights flicker, give us thirty seconds then expect us to come in. Let Danny know then be ready to duck for cover, okay?"

_"Yeah. Got it. Thanks, Mac."_

"We're going to get you all out of there, Sheldon. That's a promise."

_"I know, Mac."_

**  
QUOTES:**

(1) **"**Upon such sacrifices the gods themselves throw incense."  
- William Shakespeare


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

_A/N: See, see? I haven't abandoned this puppy! He's growing quite nicely, as a matter of fact! But between health "issues," new job "issues," and other "issues" of various kinds, writing has taken a back seat. I hope you enjoy the next installment, even though it is a short one. As a final note, I include another reminder that Collier's bigotry and language are his and his alone. I have not, do not, and never will use this language._

"Collier! The television is here. We've kept our side of the bargain. Now it's your turn."

An ominous lack of movement from within the forensics floor break room answered Mac Taylor's call. Standing up the hallway, barely within sight of the break area entry, he waited, breathless, for any sight or sound. Ten seconds, fifteen. Twenty seconds, a full minute passed with no sign of a response.

Beside him, Stella Bonasera whispered a soft prayer. On his other side, Don Flack's breathing was unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent corridor.

_Will Collier stick to his word?_ Mac offered up a prayer of his own._ God, please, for Lindsay's sake, let it be so._

The blinds over the break room door moved.

Every drawn weapon, including every detective's pistol and the SWAT team's automatic weapons, snapped to alert as the door cracked open.

Mac caught his first view of his man's condition and gasped. _"Hawkes?"_

"I'm fine, Mac," Sheldon Hawkes said, though he was clearly not fine by any reliable definition of the word.

Stark white bandages and livid black bruises marred the former medical examiner's face and head. Blood--his own, Lindsay's, and Danny's--stiffened his black turtleneck sweater. As he toed off the wheel break of the TV stand and started the tall metal shelf rolling, he moved with the stiffness of an 80-year-old man.

Collier's hate-filled voice filtered through from the dark recesses of the hostage scene. "Get back in here! What's taking you so long?"

"I'm coming," Hawkes replied and vanished with the TV cart.

The watchers waited again. One minute passed, then another. Mac ground his teeth together in helpless rage. With each passing second, he became more convinced that Collier would renege on his agreement.

The door blinds moved again.

A single foot slipped through, its heel caught on the aluminum frame in order to pull the portal open wider. As soon as the opening was sufficient, Hawkes stepped back into the doorway.

Lindsay Monroe lay diagonally across his chest, her left arm draped over his right shoulder, forehead resting against his throat. Her legs dangled beneath his left arm like a puppet's after the strings have been cut. The silver space blanket slipped down to reveal the blood-soaked bandages and clothing that covered her back.

Moving with infinite care, Hawkes transferred Lindsay to the stretcher, doing his very best to keep her spine as straight as possible. He laid his precious burden onto the white sheet, rubbed his forehead, and leaned against the locked stretcher frame for support.

The instant the black CSI completed the move, Captain Robbins' hand squeezed Mac's shoulder. The SWAT leader's grip stopped Taylor from rushing forward, part of an automatic need to help his injured friends.

"You are taking far too long!" Collier called again. "Get back in this room, you pompous, useless, ignorant negro! I will not tell you again!"

"Sheldon, you can't go back in there," Mac begged, his hand held out in entreaty. "His bigotry and hatred ... I don't know how much longer we can keep him from doing something violent. You'll be the first one he kills."

"I know," Hawkes whispered, his voice quivering with fear. He shivered and straightened his spine with great effort. "He has a gun to Danny's head. I have to go back." Sheldon brushed his fingertips across Lindsay's ratted hair, an unmistakable goodbye, and stepped back into the break room. As the door closed, he said, "Get her to Sid, asap."

Taylor called out, "Hawkes, _wait!_" but it was too late. The doctor had already disappeared.

The instant the vertical blinds stopped swinging, six men from the SWAT team moved forward, the four with shields providing cover for the final two. Within moments, they moved the stretcher from the danger zone to in front of the waiting elevator.

Mac and his team joined them there.

Sid Hammerback pounced on the stretcher's occupant the instant the SWAT men made an opening wide enough for him to pass through. He checked Lindsay's pupils and carotid pulse, took one flash look at the wound beneath the dressing, and shoved the gurney toward the open elevator, shouting, "Move, move, _move!_" to the pair of assisting EMTs.

"Call us, Sid, soon as there's news!" Mac shouted as the elevator doors slid closed, cutting off their view of the tiny, still figure on the stretcher. Dr. Hammerback was too intent on his critically injured patient to answer.

An eternal silence followed. Every man and woman in the group paused, each a mix of conflicting emotions. Gratitude to have Lindsay finally on her way to a hospital. Horror at their first clear view of her condition. Fear that their every effort would prove to be in vain. Continued concern for Danny Messer and Sheldon Hawkes, who remained in the hands of a madman.

The silence lasted a full half-minute, until Adam Ross stumbled into the crowd gathered beside the freshly closed elevator.

"Mac, Don, everybody!" Adam called. Though both hands carried folders, he waved the one in his right hand in their direction. "I've analyzed all the phone conversations. Sheldon whispered a report into the background of one of the phone conversation between Mac and Collier. Weapons info, medications, Collier's health and condition, room situation, everything you'll need to know if you have to storm in. I made a written transcript!"

The SWAT commander, Tom Robbins, grabbed the folder, hissed a triumphant "Yes!" and hurried toward Mac's office, already reading the top pages. Larry Baynes followed close on his heels. The departmental negotiator accepted the first sheet as the SWAT leader finished reading and passed it over. Three of Robbins' Alpha team members trailed behind the pair.

As the CSI group moved to join them, Adam Ross held out his arms, blocking his teammates. Mac frowned but bit back an automatic reprimand. Though anxious to be involved in any planning, he trusted his lab tech. Adam would have a good reason to want to speak outside the hearing of non-team personnel.

Taylor's eyes lit on the folder in Ross' left hand. _What else has he found that he doesn't want Robbins or Baynes to know about?_

"Adam?"

"There's more, Mac," the bearded, red-haired tech reported. "I want to run the results by you first, just in case SWAT decides it's reason enough to go charging in, guns blazing."

Mac grimaced and tilted his head to one side. Beside him, Stella and Don's expressions mirrored his misgivings.

"Something tells me I'm not going to like what you're about to tell me."

Adam sighed and nodded. "I ran a ballistics on the bullet Stella pulled from the wall in the Trace lab. I got a hit. Well. Three hits, actually." He handed over the first of three stapled reports in the folder. "First was about three weeks ago, someone put three rounds into the side of a YMCA building over in Queens. Shot up a sign for an upcoming fundraiser for the local kids--clothing, school supplies, and suchlike."

"Lemme guess," Don Flack cut in as he studied the police report over Mac's shoulder. "It was a minority neighborhood."

"'Fraid so. Luckily, no one was there at the time."

Mac seriously didn't want to but forced himself to ask, "When were the other two?"

Adam passed over the second report. "Second was last Sunday afternoon. Drive-by at a Catholic church in broad daylight."

The papers jerked in Taylor's hand, the paper rattle a sign of his agitation. Mac hissed under his breath while Don and Stella said in unison, "A church?"

"Hispanic wedding. A couple of guests and the groom's father were injured but no one was killed."

As he examined the report, along with accompanying scene and victim photographs, Mac immediately saw the pattern behind the attacks. "He's becoming more violent, more willing to act on his impulses, less restrained by lifelong morals."

Adam ducked his head, paused, and finished his synopsis. He handed over the final report. His body language screamed determination laced with undeniable reluctance. "The third hit ... was two days ago--Wednesday. An African American male was shot nine times while walking his dog in a predominantly white neighborhood. Jersey PD thinks it was a hate crime."

"Dammit." Mac smacked his flat right palm against the nearby wall and spun a quarter turn to the left. Tormented eyes turned to meet the equally horrified gazes of his friends. "He's already killed. He'll have nothing to lose by taking out Shelton and Danny."


End file.
